


The Orange Sunrise

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Cruelty, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to join a xenophobic Starfleet due to his checkered past, Jim finds more than he bargained for in their latest Vulcan captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Another long one. This won’t have much porn in it, so don’t hold your breath for that, please. ^^; Rating is for much later. This is vaguely inspired by “Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.” That’s right. Jim’s the horse and Spock’s the native. Yuuup.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It looks impressive, he’ll admit—a lot bigger than his mother’s little farmhouse. The base itself is much wider than it is tall, but its twists of towers and inner walls and sealed chambers glisten with polished ease, interesting architecture and smooth functionality. For some things, Starfleet spares no expense. It’s how Jim thinks organizations focused on space should be, but then he remembers all the uglier parts beneath the pristine metal, and he tries to stifle his awe. He wanted the stars, always has, but he’s never given into Starfleet before—not until his latest offense left him without choice: that or jail. He’s old enough for his crimes to wash him into the draft. He’s not on this shuttle because he wants to be. 

He tells himself that again as it descends into an opening roof, a large docking bay lined with other vessels. The dense forest in the middle of nowhere disappears over the scope of the walls, until the view is just cold and militant, the ceiling sliding shut again above them. Jim looks away from the window as the shuttle lands, and he wonders vaguely if he can just refuse to go—stay in his seat until they send it back. ...But then it really would be just _jail_ , and Jim’s too free a spirit for that. He doesn’t think he could take three tiny walls and a set of bars. Starfleet is a hateful organization out in the stars, but... at least it sees those stars.

The seatbelt snaps off him on landing, and the suddenness is unsettling, makes him jolt as gravity settles and the shuttle doors decompress. The people around him—naïve volunteers or similar, non-violent criminals, have a general nervousness about them. It’ll just be training at first, Jim’s sure, but... it’s all on-site. None of them know anything. He doesn’t know where everyone else is from, but he knows this is going to be a lot different than Iowa. 

As soon as the doors open, a trim woman with dark skin and long, straight hair done up in a pony tail strolls inside, a PADD tucked neatly under her arm. She’s attractive enough, but Jim’s usual will to hit on everyone even remotely within his league got jostled somewhere along the trying journey. He’s not likely to find anyone to share his usual antics with in this place anyway—the last thing he wants is some stuck up, close-minded soldier. This woman looks particularly up tight, and she stands in front of the new recruits to set into a cold set of instructions. There’s no welcome, no introductions. They’re assigned to different parts to the buildings and drilled with certain etiquettes. She tells them to address her as Lieutenant Uhura, and Jim resists the urge to ask for her first name—he’s not a surname sort of person. Or a generally formal one. That’ll have to change. At the end of her long tirade, she singles him out to say, “If you have anywhere near that amount of stubble tomorrow, Cadet, you’ll spend your first week here on the wrong end of target practice.” Caught off guard, Jim just stares at her, then rubs his chin; he shaved yesterday, and he’s barely got a millimeter of scratch.

They’re lead past her and out of the shuttle one by one, where several other officers are waiting to lead them off in groups. Jim’s been instructed by Lieutenant Uhura to report for guard duty, doubtless because his criminal profile will label him too dumb for anything more important. The idea of being little more than a lackey irks him, but he gets the distinct idea that airing his grievances will bear no reward. Never mind that he’s not particularly burly. He’s got a history of fighting; they probably know that. They probably know _everything_.

Lieutenant Uhura steers him over to an aged, hard looking man with a skeletal sort of face and dull skin. He holds out a hand and announces in an uncomfortably gravely voice, “Commander Marcus.”

Jim takes the hand, is shaken firmly, and answers as not-sullenly as he can manage, “Jim Kirk.”

“James T. Kirk,” Lieutenant Uhura corrects behind him, before moving on to one of the others. Jim represses his scowl in her direction. He knows he’s just going to be a number to these people anyway; it shouldn’t matter what he wants to call himself. Commander Marcus looks supremely unimpressed already. 

Nevertheless, Marcus turns, hands folding behind his back, and he marches off, snapping curtly, “Come.” So Jim falls in line, hoisting his small travel bag over his shoulder and hoping he’s being taken directly to his quarters. He could use some sulking time; he spent the majority of the ride here mourning his freedom and thinking of all the racist dickheads he’s met in bars and how he’s about to be immersed in them. At the time, it seemed like a perfect solution, but now there’s no depth to his regret over trying to hack into that government shuttlecraft.

The grand tour is pretty much what Jim expects and exactly what he gets. He’s taken out of the docking bay and marched along between barracks, where Marcus jabs a finger and says, whilst still walking at a brisk pace, “You’ll be staying in there with other guards and provided one bunk and one locker. We expect you to take care of your own personal hygiene on a daily basis; failure to do so will result in swift punishment.” There is no tour inside, but then, it doesn’t sound like there’s much to explain. They’re woven over a gravel path and into a larger, stark-looking building, sleek and windowless. The inside is lined with tables and a cafeteria on one side, loaded with Synthesizers and a few workers. “This is the messhall. You will be allotted set breaks and rations. If you go over your share, you’ll find yourself starving next week.” Pleasant. Jim doesn’t bother to even grunt acknowledgement to any of this, just keeps walking. He’s taken to a supply area and a weapons locker, though he’s only shown the first level of clearance. Time ticks on, his bag growing heavy on his shoulders, and he knows that to tour the whole base would probably take up the rest of the few daylight hours and the whole damn night. The only reason Jim doesn’t complain is because he’s too tired to fight, and Commander Marcus looks like a man ready to snap him in half at the slightest opportunity. 

Jim’s always had a good sense of direction, and he’s relieved when he’s finally weaved past the executive offices to head back towards the barracks. They take a different route, but Jim thinks it’s the right way. He passes another tour group with two women from the shuttle, but none of them acknowledge him; it’s been a solemn trip from back to front. Out of the executive building, they pass through another open courtyard with a large training field in the middle and soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat. They’ve yet to pass any holding cells, and Jim’s starting to wonder what exactly he’s going to be guarding. Frankly, he’d rather be in the practice arena than standing watch or playing referee.

At the end of the field, however, Commander Marcus stops, and Jim nearly walks into his back. It doesn’t take long to figure out why; his eyes are drawn to one of the flagpoles at the end of the training field. He looks down, and his eyes go wide.

“We intercepted a Vulcan ship,” Commander Marcus explains, nodding towards the prisoner sitting at the base of the pole. It couldn’t be anything but a prisoner.

The man there has his legs folded against the dirt ground, feet and chest bare, arms tied with knots of thick rope behind him and around the pole. His head is hung, but Jim doesn’t need to see his face to recognize an alien. The pointed ears are indicative of Vulcans, the glossy, straight cut, black hair exactly like guidebooks always say. Still, it’s the first time Jim’s seen a real, live alien, and it makes his breath catch.

Commander Marcus strolls closer and promptly kicks the man in the side. Jim winces harder than the Vulcan does, but he still steps closer to hear his instructor continue half calmly, half with thinly veiled malice, “We managed to catch this one and thought we’d string him up for the officers to play with—boost morale. Hence the need for more security; they’re tough little shits.” Another kick, and the Vulcan flinches almost unnoticeably. The imprint of dirt from Commander Marcus’ shoe stays on his side.

The Vulcan looks a lot worse for wear. Aside from being stripped down to just a pair of ragged pants, his pale, yellowish skin is bruised odd colours in several places, a few gashes sporting trickles of dried green blood. He’s breathing shallowly, and though he looks about Jim’s age, well toned and trim, he’s starting to show clear signs of malnutrition—Jim can see the faint lines of his ribs and the too-thin sinew of his neck. When Commander Marcus kneels down and grabs a chunk of black hair, Jim thinks he’s going to be sick. 

Commander Marcus wrenches the Vulcan’s head back, and Jim wants to look away but finds himself unable. The Vulcan’s face is handsome but tortured, eyes shut and teeth grit, green dribbling down the side of his mouth and sharp eyebrows pointed, arched differently. There’s a foreign beauty to him that Commander Marcus clearly doesn’t appreciate. “You see this ugly mug?” Command Marcus taunts, and Jim has trouble keeping the heated anger from his face when he’s glanced at. There’s nothing ugly about the poor prisoner in Commander Marcus’ grip, just the depressing sight of abuse. “These devils are what we’re fighting. You need a reminder of why Starfleet is so important for Earth’s rights, you come have a look at this demon.” The Vulcan keeps his eyes closed the entire time, not reacting to the words, probably trying to go somewhere else in his head. Jim tries to do the same, but all he can think is _fuck_ , he doesn’t want to be a part of this. 

He wants the tour to move on, but he knows that this scene will still haunt him. He doesn’t give anything for Commander Marcus to go on, no excuse to continue. Even without his encouragement, Commander Marcus still lingers with his fist in the Vulcan’s hair, and when he does get back to his feet, he drags the Vulcan up with him. The Vulcan’s feet scramble to accommodate, but his shoulders don’t move—Jim wonders horribly if they’ve been dislocated. Once Commander Marcus is up, he shoves the Vulcan back down and repeats to Jim with a sick, sadistic sort of look, “On your off time, feel free to take out your frustrations on him. It’s the only way to get a lesson through to these people.” What ‘lesson,’ Jim doesn’t want to know.

Jim forces himself to nod. Back on the ground, The Vulcan’s eyes have opened a crack, but Jim can’t see the colour through the thick lashes. He knows that he’s going to see that face in his dreams tonight, or his nightmares. 

Finally, Commander Marcus moves on, and Jim tries not to let his gaze linger too long. His worst fears are confirmed when Commander Marcus tells him, “Your training assignment will be to guard him on nightshift for the first month here, assuming, of course, he lives that long. If he dies in your care, alert the medical staff immediately; they’ve been dying to do an autopsy—they say the body’s better fresh. After that month, we’ll assess your skills and reassign you where necessary.” Again, Jim doesn’t answer, just feels worse and worse and tries not to think about home and how much he just wants to run back there, even if he did spend half his life wanting to be somewhere else instead. This isn’t what he meant. 

By the time they reach the barracks again, Jim hasn’t taken in much since the prisoner. It’s a haunting sort of memory that just gets uglier in his head the more he thinks about it. He’s left at the door, and Commander Marcus shakes his hand again, announcing, “Good luck, son,” as though expecting Jim to be weeded out in no time at all. Jim’s starting to wonder if jail would’ve been a nicer option. 

The sky isn’t entirely dark, but as soon as Commander Marcus disappears around the corner, there’s no thought to food or drink—just his bunk. Jim walks into the barracks on his own and finds a tight row of ten bunk beds, five on either side, a door in the back for what’s probably a bathroom, and a row of lockers along the closer end. Most of the bunks look empty—trust him to get the reject room—but there’s one man sitting on the white sheets two beds down, green blanket rolled up at the end. He’s got one shoe off and looks up at Jim. 

Jim shuts the door behind himself and marches over, forcing himself to meet one more most-likely-douchebag. He doesn’t toss his bag anywhere yet, because he doesn’t know if he wants to be near or as far as possible from this person. He grunts, “Jim,” by way of greeting.

The man is probably about Jim’s age, Asian, with cropped black hair and a trim build. He nods and finishes pushing off his boot, now down to uniform pants and a white shirt, and returns, “Hikaru Sulu.” It’s not enough to go on, so Jim, still holding his bag, waffles between beds. Sulu tells him offhandedly while tucking the discarded boots under his bed, “They’re all free, but the springs are broken in the one at the end.”

Jim mutters, “Thanks,” and picks one across and down from Sulu, based on nothing in particular. Then, because he’s usually a more social person than this, he offers, “I’m new.”

“Volunteer or draft?”

“Draft.” Though it doesn’t look, based on what Jim’s seen, like even the draft is catching many recruits.

Sulu nods and shuffles over to the trunk at the end of his bed, flipping it open to fish through. Jim can’t help but notice the sword in it along with assorted fencing gear: a fighter, then. Jim opens his own bag, ready to pack away his limited belongings. He finds a folded uniform in the trunk at the end of his bed, probably meant for him, or at least, any new recruit. Sulu asks casually, “Who gave you the tour?”

“Commander Marcus,” Jim says as neutrally as possible, then looks up to gauge Sulu’s reaction. 

To Jim’s surprise, Sulu scowls lightly. “Piece of work, that one. The reason it’s so empty over here? Everyone wants to transfer out of his grip, preferably to Commander Pike’s side. Not that it’s that full anywhere. You drew the short straw, my friend.” After finding and retracting a PADD from the open trunk, Sulu looks up sharply to add, “By the way, what happens in the barracks stays in the barracks. You repeat that outside and you’ll have yourself one unhappy roommate.”

Jim’s quick to nod. “No, I agree. Just met the man and I already think he embodies the worst qualities of Starfleet.” He’s not that afraid of it getting out; he’s inevitably going to get into trouble soon or later.

Sulu nods, eyes sweeping Jim in clear appraisal. Jim’s chin lifts on instinct. “Well, stay out of his way, and you’ll do fine.” Then Sulu settles back on his bed, lying down and starting in on his PADD. He seems alright, at least, which is a big relief; Jim’s reached his limit for the day. He finishes unpacking and stretches out on the bed, kicking off his shoes. It’s lumpy and somewhat uncomfortable, but it’s better than the holding cell he slept in last night. 

After about half an hour of nothing much, just general decompression and whirling thoughts, Sulu breaks the silence to ask, “What’s your assignment?”

Jim answers glumly, “Guarding the Vulcan.” He looks down his feet at Sulu, but the PADD blocks Sulu’s face. 

After a moment, Sulu replies levelly, “Don’t be too cruel—he goes through enough shit as it is.” And Jim decides instantly that he lucked out with Sulu: he couldn’t agree more. He wants to say he’s not going to be cruel at all, but he finds himself just staying quiet. He considers asking if Sulu knows the Vulcan’s name, but he probably doesn’t. 

A minute later, the lights automatically flicker out. The small, metal cabin is left in total darkness, save for the bluish glow of Sulu’s PADD. Sulu turns it off and puts it aside, and Jim forces his heavy body to wriggle under the blanket. He misses his own bed. 

He misses a lot of things. He wonders absently when he’ll be able to write to his mother or Sam, but then, he’s not even sure he wants to admit his choice. Jail would’ve been nobler. 

When he shuts his eyes for good, he expects to fall asleep fast; everything’s been draining. But the image of the Vulcan in the courtyard disturbs him for a long time, and when he finally does drift off, it’s with a cold despair that makes him wish he were a child again, too young and naïve to know what men do beyond the stars.


	2. ~

The first morning sucks. A blaring alarm goes off from somewhere else in the compound, and Jim rolls out of bed in the shock and smacks right into the floor. It’s hard, cold, unforgiving, and a horrible replacement for the mattress. Jim’s still swearing and rubbing his face as he pushes up. There’re footsteps in the background he can’t be bothered to follow right now. 

Nothing goes particularly well from there. Jim clambers back into bed, has Sulu shove him out, is given less than five minutes to do everything he needs to in the bathroom, and then he’s changed into a scratchy, ill-fitting, plain green uniform and being pushed out the door. Sulu jogs off to the left, over-shirt tied around his waist and white tank stretched across his thin, muscular form. Jim has the instinct to follow, one quarter because Sulu looks good like that, one quarter because he’s so far proven to not be a total dick, and half because Jim doesn’t know what else to do. The way the whole place is run feels... wrong. Already. But Sulu’s gone too fast for Jim’s just-woken-up brain to handle. 

He’s sure Lieutenant Uhura or Commander Marcus gave him instructions, but if he retained either, he lost it overnight. He rubs his face again against the glaring sunlight and wonders vaguely how Starfleet made it so long with such shit organization. They can’t just expect soldiers to remember and automatically fall into line on their own—at least, not when they were recruited how Jim was. He can’t believe he’s thinking it, but there really should be more people around to fall in line with.

All he knows is that, at some point or another, he’s supposed to guard the alien in the training courtyard. It takes a few tries to find his way there, weaving in and around other barracks and stark buildings, but he’s stubborn and doesn’t stop to ask for directions. Soldiers buzz around him and take no notice: a busy hive they just assume he’s a part of. 

When he finds the right courtyard, he only makes it a few steps in before Commander Marcus shows up out of nowhere and sweeps him off. He mutters a curt, “Good morning, Commander.”

He’s told with a disapproving frown, “Afternoon, Cadet. The early shift got up at the crack of dawn; you must’ve slept right through the first alarm.” At Jim’s startled look, Command Marcus waves a hand. His pace is quick, and Jim follows him through one of the side buildings—a long hall of officers handling ammunition. “Don’t get used to it. Make sure you don’t miss the second bell, because that’s when your shift starts. We’ll need you up and alert through the night, understand?” Jim nods: sure, whatever. He half expects Commander Marcus to scoop up another few people, but Starfleet must be running low; no one joins them. It gives Jim a bitter satisfaction to think their recruitment levels must be down; maybe Earth is finally waking up to the idea that racism is no better off the ground than it is on it. 

Eventually they hit a generic-looking building that means nothing to Jim. He’s told to replace the thickset woman standing guard and to report to the training yard in two hours. Commander Marcus disappears around the corner, and Jim stands at attention for precisely sixty seconds before slouching and feeling useless.

The two hours that follow are some of the most boring of Jim’s life. No one comes or goes from the building he’s apparently guarding, he doesn’t know what it is, and he’s too sullen to be curious. He passes the time eyeing the people that pass and feeling inordinately sorry for himself. Normally, he’s more the type to _do something_ than huddle in a corner and cry, but guard duty doesn’t leave him much option.

He doesn’t have a watch, and there’s no clock in view, but once he asks a short, mousy woman the time, and she informs him that it’s only been forty-six minutes. That’s supremely depressing, so he doesn’t ask for the time again.

What feels like an eternity later, when he’s leaning against the wall with folded arms and trying desperately to stay awake, a wiry brunet comes to replace him. The man doesn’t look any more fit for bouncer duty than Jim does, and Jim wonders again how enrollment’s looking. 

It takes a few minutes too many to find the training yard, and it earns him some biting remarks from the guard there before him. She’s stationed at the corner of the fenced-off fighting field, next to the pole where the Vulcan from yesterday is still tied. Jim’s stomach twists all over again; he’d almost forgotten the extent of the problem. He takes her place and turns his back to the half a dozen soldiers practicing phaser fire on moving holographic targets. He knows the Vulcan is what he’s supposed to be guarding, but it’s too uncomfortable to look too long, so he stands parallel, gaze fixed randomly on the far wall. He keeps his posture tight and ponders why the prisoner needs a guard anyway. The training yard seems fairly busy, even if it won’t be at night, but the Vulcan is hardly in any position to escape or fight.

It occurs to Jim belatedly that ‘the Vulcan’ must have a name. And then he has to scold himself for thinking like Starfleet, not bothering to use one. His eyes slip sideways to look, head fixed forward to be as innocuous as possible; he doesn’t need to be caught staring. By who, he’s not even sure. 

Nothing’s changed. The Vulcan’s wearing no more than a tattered pair of pants, his wrists are still bound together behind his back, and his head is still hung, cuts and bruises all over his pale skin. Today it’s beaded lightly with sweat, glossy under the harsh sun, and Jim’s suddenly thirsty, then feels worse—who feeds the Vulcan and gives him water? Someone must. It wasn’t in his job description, but he glances around the courtyard anyway—there’s nothing even remotely like supplies. There’s no water fountain. He shifts his feet awkwardly and looks back; the Vulcan’s definitely breathing. But shallowly. He didn’t look up for the change of guards. He doesn’t look anywhere. Jim remembers Commander Marcus jerking his head back and the absence of tears.

Looking back at the training session behind him, loud and self-involved, Jim takes a step closer to the pole. He couldn’t even explain why he feels the need to be discreet; they’re not likely to notice anything he does, so caught up in their mock-battle. There’s no one else in the courtyard, and the few windows that litter the buildings aren’t even open. Maybe it’s just the unconscious knowledge that he could easily be reassigned, and another guard could be worse. If anything, he doesn’t want to protect the compound from the Vulcan so much as the Vulcan from people like Commander Marcus. He takes another step, his shadow slipping over one of the Vulcan’s crossed knees. 

Something in the Vulcan hesitates. Jim’s now staring enough to catch the slight change in the angle of his head, the way his muscles tense, like bracing for a blow. Jim considers kneeling down, but instead just says quietly, “Hey.”

The Vulcan tightens and lowers his head, back arching forward, arms drawn taut, like he’s trying to curl in on himself. Feeling worse, Jim bites back reassurances he can’t follow through on. He goes with the least scary thing he can think of and mumbles, “Jim.”

Another second of tension, and the Vulcan tilts his head up, straight bangs sliding across his smooth forehead. His dark eyes settle on Jim’s leg, then slowly climb his body, stopping at his face, and Jim’s breath catches as the Vulcan bores holes into his head. He’s seen pictures of Vulcans, of course, but he’s never really held one’s gaze. The pictures don’t nearly do it justice. One of the Vulcan’s cheeks is bruised, mouth still leaking green at the corner, and there’s a new nick in one of his eyebrows. He stares at Jim blankly, expressionless, and Jim can’t tell if he’s waiting for the worst to come or daring Jim to do something. Jim’s tongue is caught in his throat, so it takes him a while to finish, “Jim Kirk. It’s my name.”

The Vulcan blinks and nothing else.

Spurred by something he couldn’t explain, Jim babbles uselessly, “I’ll be, uh, guarding you for... for a while, I guess. On the late shift. So, y’know, you might as well know me.” He has no idea how to talk to a prisoner, though he knows the law enforcement that held him never spoke much to him. Then: “What’s your name?” The Vulcan’s gaze falters, before flittering over Jim’s face. Jim tries to weakly smile but finds he can’t manage it. 

Finally, the Vulcan opens his mouth, but then he coughs, splutters, and topples forward, caught by his own bindings before he can hit the ground. Jim’s on his knees in a heartbeat, grabbing the Vulcan to try and steady him, but the Vulcan jerks out of his grasp, still spluttering and coughing. A chunk of green blood hits the ground just in front of his legs, curdling in the dirt. Jim’s fingers twitch uselessly; he wants to _help_. The Vulcan stays hunched to the side, shivering and nearly convulsing. Jim waits while he levels out. His arms eventually move, hiking higher to help pull him up; he leans his back against the pole again, the metal probably scalding hot against his skin, but Jim remembers reading somewhere that Vulcan’s hotter. He thinks so, anyway. He’s no expert. He’s glad to know that the Vulcan’s arms aren’t broken, but the way his long fingers are curled in and limp, wrists lined with more green and palms covered in dirt, is hardly a pleasant sight. Jim stays kneeling; whatever Marcus said, he doesn’t need anyone dying on his watch. 

When the Vulcan looks at him, it seems to be with a short, split-second burst of surprise, perhaps that he’s still there. Jim’s instinct is to ask if the Vulcan’s okay, but he stops himself just in time: what a stupid question. Instead he repeats softly, “What’s your name?” After the Vulcan just eyes him, Jim says again, “I’m Jim. I won’t... I mean, I’m not trying to get information out of you, I just... I’d like to know who I’m guarding.” And even that sounds wrong, but it’s the best he has. 

The Vulcan’s mouth opens again. Jim’s ready, just in case, to catch him if he buckles over. Instead, the Vulcan mutters, “A _devil_ ,” in a deep, scratched voice. The tone washes over Jim before the words do, and he frowns. He doesn’t know if the Vulcan has a sense of humour or is just being bitter. Or maybe he genuinely thinks that’s all Jim will see him as, and that hurts.

Jim says, “I don’t think so.” He waits, frowning but hopeful. 

A few minutes of quiet between them, the clattering noise of feet in the dirt and phaser fire behind them, and the Vulcan pauses before breathing, “Spock.” And his eyes shift away from Jim, ending the conversation.

Jim repeats, “Spock,” half to himself. It’s a strange name, but it should be. It’s... fitting.

He gets back to his feet, mostly just to give Spock some space. He clasps his hands behind his back like he’s seen other guards do, and he tries to stand still, just generally _guarding._ Guarding _Spock_. It’s odd, when he thinks about it, that he’s doing so without a weapon, without any equipment really, but maybe they know Spock’s too weak to move, and he’s just for show. Maybe he’s just there to report a new dead body at the soonest convenience. Maybe he’ll get a phaser when he proves himself halfway competent. Or maybe they’re as low on supplies as they are on people. For now, he stands where he is, watching Spock out of the corner of his eye. 

He wants to wait to see where Spock relaxes, but Spock never really does. He’s just in a general state of existence, sitting nondescriptly in place, never moving, never shifting. His breathing is the only sign of life. Jim tries not to stare too much, even subtly as he is, but he finds it hard. There’s nothing better to look at in the courtyard. There’s probably nothing better in this whole compound. Spock’s an alien from across the stars, and that’s more interesting than anything else Jim could hope to look at. He finds his gaze lingering particularly long on the curved tips of Spock’s ears, delicate and foreign. 

Even without the differences to peak Jim’s interest, there’s no denying that Spock’s good to look at. He has the same basic shape as humans, better than most, toned and well built: more than typically handsome. His face is angular, a little long, attractive in everything from the arch of his slanted eyebrows to the pink hue of his bow lips. His bared chest is equally alluring. For a moment, Jim gets lost in the steady rise and fall, the sun catching all the right lines and making the highlights glisten. A single bead of sweat catches Jim’s interest along Spock’s collarbone, and he watches the way it steadily trickles down Spock’s front, catching around one rosy nipple and dipping on, over the outline of a chiseled chest and eventually into the dark tufts of hair visible just over the hem of his pants. Then Jim’s really lost it. He realizes he’s ogling a half-naked man completely at his mercy, and he jerks his eyes away, forcing himself to blankly stare into the distance. The last thing he needs is for his inappropriate habits to get the better of him; Spock’s clearly gone through enough without Jim hitting on him when he’s in no position to consent. And what would Jim do anyway? Make out with a man tied to a pole in the middle of a militant public? They’d both get shot, no matter what position Starfleet’s personnel numbers are in. 

Though Jim makes an effort not to look at Spock, he thinks of nothing else for the majority of his shift. It sort of gives him something to do, which is almost a blessing—nothing else eventful happens. The group of soldiers firing phasers eventually dwindles off, retiring somewhere else, and the area behind Jim and Spock is left empty. Jim considers using the opportunity without spectators to ask what Vulcan’s like, but then he thinks it might be a cruel reminder of something Spock might never see again. A few minutes later a new group filters in—five soldiers ready for hand-to-hand combat training. Another six show up later, lead by Sulu, who wants to engage in sword fighting. This is something Jim would be more interested in watching, but the field’s first come, first serve, and they have to filter off elsewhere, Jim sending Sulu a weak wave. He feels incredibly useless—he’s spent most of the day standing aimlessly about, while Sulu’s off swashbuckling and whatever else. Never mind what his friends and family back home are doing. Somehow, he at least thought Starfleet would be more... eventful... than this. 

Another sizeable chunk of time later, when Jim’s found his gaze drifting back to the inner workings of Spock’s architectural ear, he’s called over to the fighters. A tall redhead asks him, “Can you help us with that cart over there? Our numbers are down and it’s built for more hands.”

Jim says, “Sure,” mainly because it’s just something to do. He follows them into the wide open doors at the edge of one of the buildings, in the corner of the arena, and finds a sort of weaponry warehouse full of various boxes. There’s no food or water in sight, which he would prefer, but he figures there can’t be much left of his shift—the sky’s already growing purple around the edges. Jim’s taken over to an old fashioned, metallic cart topped with sacks of who-knows-what that looks more than heavy enough to warrant hover technology. Nonetheless, he steps in behind it and helps push. 

After several seconds of vainly huffing and puffing, the cart starts to roll forward, and Jim puts his shoulder up against the back for more leverage. Together, the six of them somehow manage to roll the cart out of the building and into the open air, where the dirt crunches below the wheels and makes it even harder to move. They keep trying, and Jim isn’t the only one to swear in frustration. Only a few meters in, the others give up and announce, “That’s enough.” So Jim, rubbing his sore arms and glad to be done with it, meanders back to his post. 

Someone else is in it. 

Halfway across the arena, Jim stops to blink, staring at the burly man next to the pole, two other soldiers behind him. The big one in front seems to be doing all the talking, but it’s too far away for Jim to catch the words. He’s got a little bit of brown hair and a nasty look on his face, and he kicks Spock suddenly, hard enough for the Vulcan to be knocked aside. Jim’s bolting across the dirt in a second. 

Jim doesn’t even bother to head through the opening in the fence—he vaults over the waist-high obstacle and keeps heading straight for the soldiers, physically knocking the one in front back by the shoulder. The larger man grunts and steps away, looking at Jim in surprise. 

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Jim barks before he can stop himself, “but you’ll keep your hands and your feet to yourself if you know what’s good for you.”

The man stares at Jim for a few more seconds before scowling. The two men behind him glance at one another before turning to move on, evidently not willing to bother with the inevitable fight, and one of them calls, “Hendorff, let’s—”

“Shut up,” the man in front snaps, and Jim figures he must be named ‘Hendorff,’ so just goes with it. Hendorff jabs a finger out at Jim, growling, “Who do you think _you_ are, storming over here and interrupting me?”

“The guard of this post.” Without thinking, Jim takes a step to the side, moving to stand between Hendorff and Spock. The smart part of his brain realizes that Hendorff’s way too big for him to take on alone, but the rest of him doesn’t care; he’s always been the sort to stand up for what’s right, whether it’s ‘smart’ or not. Hendorff’s scowl deepens before twisting into a smirk. 

“I don’t think you get what your job is, kid. What d’you think he’s tied up out here for anyway? It’s for morale—for us to play with when we’re off. And I’m off. I dunno where you’re posted from, but this is Commander Marcus’ section, and he _wants_ us to hurt that thing.” Jim’s teeth grit together—Spock’s not a ‘thing.’ He’s a person, human or not, and he deserves better than the way Hendorff talks about him.

Jim’s about to spout a response when he’s abruptly shoved to the side, stumbling out of the way. Hendorff steps in front of Spock, hand on his pants as he laughs over his shoulder, “Hell, I could piss on him if I wanted; Commander Marcus’ has been crueler.” Hendorff looks back around, smirking down at Spock while his fingers work on his fly. Spock’s eyes are closed, but otherwise, he shows no reaction. Jim’s _horrified_.

Jim grabs a chunk of Hendorff’s green uniform and jerks him back for it, already prepared for the fist that flies around to meet him. He steps back, and Hendorff’s snarling, fists clenched and ready to take him down, his two lackeys nervously stepping in to help, and before Jim can put up a fight, someone barks over them, “What in the hell is going on here?” Stunned, Hendorff immediately snaps to attention. 

Jim doesn’t have the same time and wherewithal to react—he just blinks at the man now marching angrily towards them. It’s another white brunet who looks a little older than Jim, and is wearing the grey jacket of a higher up uniform. Obviously someone Hendorff knows not to cross, or maybe he’s just better with rank than Jim is. The man storms right up to them and crosses his arms, glaring between them for answers. Jim glances at Hendorff, who surprisingly looks back at him. 

Then Hendorff jabs an accusing finger in Jim’s direction and says, “He started it!”

“He was harassing Spock,” Jim immediately returns, even though the man in front of them probably doesn’t know Spock’s name. A second after he’s said it, Jim’s sure this isn’t going to go well.

To his shock, the man glares at Hendorff and snaps, “For God sake’s, man; he’s a Vulcan, not a punching bag!”

Something like a fish, Hendorff opens his mouth and shuts it again, while Jim’s vindicated mind smirks up a storm. 

Then the man looks back at him and continues, “And you, what’re you standing so close for anyway? Do you want to pick up some sick alien disease? Do you realize how little tests we’ve been able to do on his people? We’re lucky we’re not all dead from some wild alien lungworm!” Jim blinks at him, thoroughly shocked.

“The same goes for you,” the man shoots back at Hendorff. “And don’t give me any of that ‘Commander Marcus’ bullshit—I told him not to let these things out here! Get out of here before you all wind up clogging my sickbay!”

Looking halfway furious and halfway chastised, Hendorff backs off. He and his pack of soldiers set off down the courtyard with a few rueful glances back over their shoulders. Jim almost wants to follow them, but then he remembers that he’s _supposed_ to be here. In their absence, he looks at the man who apparently has a sickbay.

That man—a doctor, most likely—gives Jim the once over before carrying on. Jim’s left standing awkwardly next to the pole, while the oblivious fighters in the background go on throwing each other to the dirt. 

Because that sounded like a load of horse shit and he’s sure if there were Vulcan diseases Command Marcus, at the very least, would be dead by now, Jim takes his place back at Spock’s side. He makes a mental note that the next time he leaves his post, he’ll at least regularly check back. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem such an unimportant job anymore.

For the next few minutes, Jim’s fixated forward, but then he becomes aware that Spock’s looking sideways at him, up through dark lashes. Spock’s still frowning, still wordless, but Jim likes to think that when their eyes connect, there’s a mutual understanding. 

Jim’s going to protect him. Or at least, Jim’s going to try. He’s got all uphill battles in front of him. He looks at the darkening sky with heavy shoulders and an aggravated sigh, and he wonders if Spock will be cold when the night comes.


	3. ~

The next day’s no better. Jim’s told to report directly to guarding the prisoner, so he does, and he stands under the still hot sun and yawns too much. He didn’t sleep through the first bell, though Sulu did. Maybe it takes practice. He spent the rest of the time lying in bed and trying not to think about what he inevitably thought about. This place is shit. He was relieved when Sulu got up and at least gave him something to do. 

Now he sort of wishes Sulu were here, or someone, really, anyone. Spock doesn’t speak to him, and for most of the morning, the courtyard’s nearly empty. A small team works to fix the apparently-malfunctioning target holorecorder, but they don’t talk to him. One of Hendorff’s lackeys walks by at one point, and Jim glares at him the whole time with a ‘keep walking’ sort of look. He gets an odd look back and doesn’t care. 

He spends the rest of the time standing in place and wondering when and if he’ll ever get a phaser. Maybe it’s for the best. Most phasers have a stun setting, but even that would probably be more than Spock’s deteriorating body could take. At least he could stun people like Hendorff that overstepped the line, even if it’d probably send him to the cells. 

When the people fixing the holorecorder leave, there’s a brief moment where they’re really _alone_. It doesn’t occur to Jim for the first few seconds, and then he’s looking around, checking, and in the whole wide, open space, it’s just him and Spock, less than a meter apart. He takes a step closer, and Spock’s head turns to the side, maybe in acknowledgement. Jim knows the dangers of staring too much, but his gaze does linger, and his mouth opens. There’re so many things he wants to ask. What are the stars like? And is there anything he can do to make this hell more bearable?

But then a group of fighters filters back in—the same five people from one of yesterday’s groups. Jim could still ask, but he... he doesn’t. He doesn’t know if Spock wants to talk. Once, Spock coughs suddenly, and Jim kneels down, just checking, and though Spock evens out, Jim stays. Spock’s lips look dry, parched and cracked, the crusted blood a constant eyesore. The more Jim stares, the more he wants to brush Spock’s bangs aside and peck his forehead and hold him and tell him everything will be alright. How the officers behind him can go on fighting as though nothing’s wrong is beyond him. His mother raised him better. Even if a bigger city might’ve meant more of the space life he wanted, he’s grateful to have grown up in the smaller space of his own values. 

He stares until Spock looks back at him, catching him in the act, and Spock’s eyes flicker over Jim’s face again. Jim wants to know what the judgment is, what Spock’s assessing. He’s probably just another guard: another repulsive human face. Spock’s head eventually hangs again, like his neck’s too sore to hold it up. Jim sighs and gets back to his feet and wrenches his eyes away with tremendous effort. 

He’s not going to be able to do this long. It hurts too much just to look at.

What feels like an eternity later, another cadet strolls too close. The boy can’t even be Jim’s age, just barely old enough to catch in the draft if he has the right skills or wrong background. He has a bright, Slavic face but a somewhat nervous air, and Jim doesn’t bother tensing; this kid is no threat. He stops at Jim, not Spock, and he says, “I am supposed to reliewe you for break...?” It comes out unsure, but Jim’s empty stomach rumbles in confirmation; he could use one. 

He glances at Spock before he answers, but Spock isn’t acknowledging them. Another look at the kid, and Jim asks, “Who’re you?”

“Ensign Chekov, Sir,” the kid replies instantly, then blushes, probably because Jim’s hardly a ‘sir.’ Must be a force of habit. He—Chekov—is pretty cute; it’s probably a survival mechanism in a place full of bigger fish. 

Jim nods and just says, “Jim,” because Commander Marcus isn’t around—it’s starting to feel like superior officers almost never are—and he doesn’t apply any ‘sir’s where he doesn’t have to. Then, on a stroke of pure genius, he bullshits, “Don’t get too close to the prisoner while I’m gone, and don’t let others touch him. The doctor says he’s infected with some weird alien strain.”

Chekov’s hazel eyes open wide, and he asks in reverence, “Really? I zhought Wulcans were compatible wizh humans...” And whatever that means, Jim doesn’t ask, just shrugs.

“Doctor’s orders.” Chekov nods, taking a step back and glancing curiously at Spock. Jim’s about to head off in the general direction of the cafeteria when he thinks to ask, “How long’s my break?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Chekov tells him, still eyeing Spock and not relaying the source of this information. Jim frowns; that’s hardly enough time to get to the cafeteria and back, let alone sit down and eat. He’d ask about it if there were anyone in charge around to ask. Then his stomach groans again, and Jim figures he better get to it. He jogs off towards food, looking over his shoulder entirely too much, but Chekov doesn’t move. If Jim eats on duty, he can probably be back in ten. 

The path to the cafeteria is a winding one, and Jim moves at a brisk pace for most of it, his legs protesting from standing still for so long. The sky’s getting darker, at least, so the heat of the sun isn’t soaking through his uniform. There’re less people out and about now; the late shift is more skeletal. When he gets to the cafeteria, it’s mostly empty. 

The options today are no better than yesterday or this morning: a few wrapped sandwiches and some open crates of various mash that could be soup, or beans, or purified vegetables, or really anything. His rations allow him one bowl of a brown mix, one sandwich (of which there’s only egg left) and a water bottle. The man behind the counter practically chucks everything at him without a tray, looking no more enthused about his work than Jim is. Jim grabs a spoon for the maybe-soup and rearranges it all in his arms. 

He doesn’t have a watch, but he can’t have been gone for more than ten minutes by the time he gets back. Chekov’s standing right where Jim left him, and he leaves behind the last of the group training—in a few minutes, the entire courtyard’s empty. 

Jim sits down next to the pole to eat, and Spock glances at him sideways. Now that they’re entirely alone and Jim’s in a position to do something about it, he asks, “Are you fed?”

Spock absently eyes the miscellaneous food in Jim’s lap, then looks away and says, “Vulcans are able to go days without food or water.” It doesn’t answer Jim’s question, and it’s not what he wanted to hear. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would be so cruel, especially to a prisoner that never actually _did_ anything wrong. Even in jail, people are given food and water. Jim checks over his shoulder to scan the courtyard again, then shuffles close enough for their legs to be touching; his mind’s made up. 

He unscrews the cap off the water bottle and holds it up to Spock’s face. It’d be easier if Spock could use his hands, but Jim knows he can’t go that far, so he’ll have to do. Spock’s eyes widen a fraction before the usual mask slips back over them, and he looks at Jim, full of disbelief and confusion. 

“Have some,” Jim insists, gesturing with his other hand. “Before anyone else comes around to see.”

“They could come at any time,” Spock reasons. “And you would be punished for aiding me.”

Jim snorts. He’s used to being punished for sticking up for what’s right; that’s not a concern. “You let me worry about that.” He keeps his hand where it is, and when Spock’s head turns forward again, Jim lightly presses the opening against Spock’s bottom lip. He wishes he could splash it over Spock’s face and wash away the dried blood, clean him up properly, but Jim knows that’s not an option. He holds his breath at the subtle indent the bottle makes along Spock’s plush bottom lip, something Jim shouldn’t be staring at. He says quietly, “Please.” This is too sad for him to allow, for him to stand up and forget. Spock hesitates, lips parting a fraction. 

Then they open more, just enough, and his eyes slowly close, surrendering to Jim’s power. Jim tips the bottle up, just a little bit at first, watching the first few dribbles of water slide over and into Spock’s mouth. Then Spock opens wider, properly, and his head tilts up, long neck arching elegantly. Jim tips the bottle accordingly—too fast, at first—and it’s too much for Spock to swallow at once; it beads and runs over the corners of his mouth, covering the trails of green. Jim mutters a hasty, “Sorry,” and readjusts the angle but doesn’t pull back; Spock barely seems to notice. His adam’s apple bobs as he starts to guzzle down what Jim’s offering, and Jim keeps staring, fixed in awe. 

Spock goes through almost half the bottle before his lips close, and Jim tilts it back, though a few stray beads do run down Spock’s chin. Spock’s long tongue swipes over his lips, his throat seeming to splutter lightly as he adjusts, his breathing coming faster. Jim doesn’t know how long he’s gone without water and doesn’t want to ask. After a moment, he leans his head back against the pole, eyes still closed, just sucking in breath. Jim betrays himself. Without even thinking, he reaches out to cup Spock’s chin, and he gently thumbs away the loose water—Spock’s eyes open just a fraction to watch. Jim freezes, but he doesn’t pull his hand back, just finishes cleaning Spock up. He doesn’t dare scratch or wipe away the blood, but he wants to, and it takes him too long to retract his hand. He resists cleaning up Spock’s chest, a few stray droplets clinging to it. Spock mumbles, “Thank you.”

Jim’s heart clenches. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t answer. When he does finally talk, it’s to announce, “You can have the rest. I can get water back in the barracks. Just... just tell me when you want it.” Spock looks at him like he’s insane, and it makes a part of Jim feel special and the rest of him feel depressed. He puts the bottle down and starts on the sandwich, pulling off the wrapping. His ears are open just in case, but the courtyard stays empty. 

Spock says, “Jim.” It’s the first time he’s said Jim’s name, and Jim’s entire body tenses—it sounds _right_ on Spock’s lips, like they’ve known each other for years and Spock’s earned the right to whittle down from ‘James’ to ‘Jim.’ “You do not have to do this.”

He knows that. Of course he doesn’t. But in a way: “I do.” He holds the sandwich up to Spock’s lips, and he says, “I’m sorry I can’t untie you.” It wouldn’t do any good. Where would they go? If Spock did overpower him and run, the rest of the base wouldn’t be as empty as this courtyard, and he’d probably be killed on sight. Jim hopes Spock likes eggs, wonders vaguely if a Vulcan would even recognize one, and then figures to a starving man, any food would probably taste wonderful.

Spock has to open much wider to take a bite, but at least he can do it on his own. Jim just holds the sandwich steady in the air, and Spock moves his head to bite it, to pull back and chew, to swallow and to go in again. He takes five bites and stops, looking at Jim with a little bit of white sauce on the corner of his lips that Jim has the too-strong urge to _lick away_ , and Jim mumbles, “Have the whole thing. I’m not hungry.” Which is a lie, but Spock needs it more than he does.

Spock’s eyes flicker over Jim. Maybe he knows that Jim’s lying, but it doesn’t matter, because Jim doesn’t budge. Nodding softly, Spock takes a few more bites, managing half before he refuses to take more. Jim asks, “More water?” And Spock nods. 

Another quarter of the bottle, and Jim asks, “Want any of... this?” He pops off the lid and tentatively takes a scoop of his own, finding it to be some sort of potato and beans mash. He tells Spock as much and adds, “It’s savoury.”

But Spock shakes his head. Maybe he can’t take so much at once after having an empty stomach for days, so Jim just nods and eats it himself. Halfway through, he stops and reaches for the little fleck of white clinging to the corner of Spock’s lips, because it’s driving him crazy. He wipes it away and pulls his hand back, and all his monstrous head can think is that he’d like to kiss it better. Then he feels like a horrible person and tries to look away while he eats. His mind instead strays to what it’s like feeding Spock without hands—like holding out food for a horse or cow to lick out of his palm. Or maybe a dog or cat. Then he thinks of what it would be like to have a pet Vulcan, and he just wants to shoot himself. 

It occurs to him belatedly that Spock probably isn’t allowed washroom breaks. Maybe he just pisses right where he is, right in his pants, like Hendorff almost did to him, like Hendorff suggested Commander Marcus has done before. The thought stills Jim’s hand in his food, scowl slipping over his face; that’s just sick. He tells himself that he doesn’t care what the consequence is. If Spock shows any signs of needing to go, Jim will take him. It’s just a basic right that all of them should have, and as long as he’s on guard duty, he’s going to do at least that his way. Surely someone at Commander Marcus’ level or up would have to agree. 

“May I...?” 

Jim glances aside; Spock’s eyeing the bottle again, and Jim lifts it up for him to take a quick sprig of water. He licks his lips afterwards, and Jim’s again stuck staring, horrible person that he is. How Commander Marcus ever called Spock ugly is so beyond him. Spock’s a special sort of beauty: exotic and incredible. 

Jim asks while he finishes off his beans, just because he wants to draw it out, doesn’t want to stand and separate again, “Where did they catch you?” And then he hastily adds, “I’m not trying to drag information out of you, I mean. I... I’m just curious.” About Spock, where Spock came from.

Frowning, Spock tells him, “It would not be logical of me to withhold information. I was on a simple science vessel. We had nothing of value.”

“We?” Jim winces after he says it. It’s probably a pit of bad memories, and Spock’s mask hesitates, almost flinches.

“The rest of my crew, I... I had assumed Starfleet had taken them...”

“They’re not here,” Jim says, somehow confident: surely he would’ve heard about it. At the very least, the doctor would have his tests and autopsy. The relief is visible on Spock’s face.

Jim gets to the end of the bowl, and he says, “I’m from Iowa. Grew up on a small farm.” Spock nods politely, even though the information is useless. Jim would probably spill his whole life story if he could, but suddenly, it doesn’t seem like there’s much to say. Not of value, anyway. He wanted to see the stars, but he never managed. He got beat up a bunch and beat up a few people back. He’s stuck here and has no more options. 

And nothing he has to say could compare with Spock’s, so Jim just licks his lips and resists taking water. 

A few minutes later, another group of trainees cuts into the courtyard, and Jim begrudgingly pushes back up to his feet, though he doesn’t step so much as a millimeter away.


	4. ~

By the time he gets his first physical, it’s been a week and seems a moot point. A part of him’s hoping he won’t pass for whatever bizarre reason—that he’ll be deemed unfit for service and sent home. But then who would feed Spock? He sits on the stool in Dr. McCoy’s office and strips off his shirt, and he lets the doctor probe at him with different intrusive machines, shivering the whole way. He’s never liked doctors. 

This one’s not as bad as he expected. From the insane disease talk he spouted back in the courtyard, Jim half expects a deranged mad scientist. But Dr. McCoy is reasonable, if grumpy, handsome and a bit grizzly, older than Jim with an obvious strength. He fills out his medical uniform well, the blue tunic stretched attractively across his broad shoulders. He growls at Jim when Jim fidgets too much, and his eyes stray a little longer than necessary over Jim’s exposed chest. After everything Jim’s seen around this hellhole, he half expects this appointment to take a less than scientific turn. 

But Dr. McCoy finishes his tests and takes a seat next to the console, chair spinning away from Jim. Jim sits there, about a meter away, wondering if it’s appropriate to joke about not having any Vulcan diseases. 

After a minute of rapidly entering data into the computer, Dr. McCoy turns back to him and announces, “You’re fit as a fiddle.”

Semi-disappointed, Jim mumbles, “Thanks.”

“Perfect for combat.” Dr. McCoy pulls over a PADD and makes another note on it, while Jim pales and hesitates. It’s not that he wouldn’t be good at combat or that he doesn’t have the fire—he’s a fighter at heart. But... Starfleet doesn’t have causes he believes in. 

And he doesn’t want to leave Spock alone with another guard he can’t trust. So he says, “Can I stick to guard duty instead?”

Dr. McCoy snorts, then glances at him and frowns, as though just then realizing he’s serious. Lifting an eyebrow, Dr. McCoy asks, “You _want_ to get stuck with guard duty?”

“Yeah.” Sort of.

“And you don’t find that, oh, I don’t know, boring as all hell?” Dr. McCoy looks at him like he’s got a screw loose, swivels back to the computer, skims data, and glances back at him again. “You’re in perfect shape. You could be actually _doing_ something.” Then he seems to catch something on the screen, most likely in Jim’s file, and grunts, “Oh, a delinquent.” Jim stays quiet. Turning back around, Dr. McCoy slumps back in his chair, reclined. “You don’t give a shit about Starfleet, is that it? Just wanted a free ride out of jail? Kids these days, no drive...”

“I’m not a kid,” Jim complains, but Dr. McCoy talks right over him. 

“How do you people think we made it into space, anyway? Lazing around in front of the holovision? You know, in the old days, they actually made you accomplish shit before you got in organizations like this—”

“I’m not lazy,” Jim interrupts louder. “I just... just want to be on guard duty.” And while Dr. McCoy eyes him warily, he stares back, determined. 

And it’s obviously not going to work, so he sighs and reverts to plan B—the side method to get out of things he only employs when he really needs to and the candidate’s not disgusting. Jim licks his lips and pulls the stool up a little closer, close enough that his knee can bump into Dr. McCoy’s—he doesn’t miss the way Dr. McCoy’s eyes flicker down to the point of contact.

“Listen,” he murmurs, nearly purrs, and he leans forward, arching his half-naked body. “I would _really_ appreciate it if you’d just write ‘guard duty’ on my file and left it at that.” He reaches out to place his hand on Dr. McCoy’s knee, and he squeezes once. He’s made it this far; he’s not leaving Spock alone. For Spock, he stares at Dr. McCoy’s handsome face and deliberately runs his tongue over his lips, employing every flirtation skill he’s ever picked up from a bar. Dr. McCoy stares back and strokes his chin. 

Then he says, “Convince me.” But he’s not smirking, not in a _get on your knees_ sort of way. It’s a legitimate officer’s question.

“I couldn’t fathom shooting people,” Jim says. It’s a lie—he’s sent more than one man to the hospital with a bloody nose, but that was personal, hand-to-hand bar fights with dickheads, not nameless aliens on the battlefield. He tells the doctor, “I make _love_ , not war.” And he raises his eyebrows, gaze saying it all. He’s _not_ going to fight for Starfleet, and he’ll do what he has to do to make sure of that. 

He has to keep the smirk off his face when Dr. McCoy turns back to the console, grumbling, “Fine.” He rolls his eyes like it’s a huge pain, but he writes it in. “Guard duty.”

Then he looks back at Jim and says, voice thick with sarcasm, “Congratulations, kid. You get to waste all your time on that green-blooded hobgoblin.” That’s just what he wants. 

Jim sits back while Dr. McCoy finishes the report. He’s not sure if he’ll have to wait here and act on his unspoken promises, but he sits still anyway, just in case. He doesn’t particularly want to, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing if he did. It might be good to have a high-ranking doctor for an ally in here. With creeps like Commander Marcus and Hendorff walking around, he could probably use some protection. He’s sure he won’t make it long alone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to figure out he’s taking care of his prisoner. 

It occurs to him just as Dr. McCoy closes down the console to ask, “Do you ever give Spock checkups?” And he asks quietly, because a part of him knows he shouldn’t ask at all.

Surprised, Dr. McCoy looks at him. There’s a note of hesitation, and then he’s told, “I keep the Vulcan alive.” Jim frowns, waiting for more, and Dr. McCoy, frowning back, sighs, “That’s all I’m allowed to do with Marcus running the damn place.”

From the tone of his voice, something tells Jim he can ask, “So you admit it’s cruel?”

Dr. McCoy snorts, “Of course.” And then he plucks Jim’s shirt off the desk and tosses it back, gesturing for the door. “Welcome to the world, kid.”


	5. ~

It’s about halfway through his shift when they approach him again, the group of five or so people that often practice during his time here. They exit the fenced area and wander over to where he is, one of them clapping him on the shoulder to say, “We’re going to borrow the prisoner for a bit, okay?” And Jim’s head whips around, _staring_.

“No.” His eyebrows knit together, half incredulous that they’d even suggest it. But the others are already by the pole, kneeling down to secure Spock. Two of them grab his shoulders and another fiddles with the rope behind him, and Spock remains lax in their grip, as though this is all commonplace. Jim ignores the man who talks to him and steps over to push away the one working on Spock’s binding. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”

“We’re just going there,” one of them replies, nodding at the fenced area. “Target practice. The holodrive’s down again, and the two dimensional cut outs just aren’t a substitute, you know?”

Jim does know, and that in no way justifies taking a living person for target practice. He shakes his head, glaring. “I said _no_. I’m guarding him, which means he’s under my watch, and I’m not letting you take him away from it.”

One of the women steps out beside him. “What’s your problem?” She looks half annoyed, half genuinely curious. “You can still watch him from here, and it’s not like he could get away.”

“I’m not worried about him getting away—”

“So what’s the big deal? We’ll put him back after.”

The man behind Spock’s started in on the ropes again, so Jim pushes him away again. Spock’s head tilts, finally glancing at Jim, but the rest of his posture is obediently easy: a ragdoll to play with. Jim pries the others’ hands off him, and they look at him oddly, truly not understanding. And that just blows his _mind_. He shouldn’t even have to explain himself. “Look, I don’t want him put back after in pieces. He’s staying here.” Jim stands up again, meaning it.

“Oh, we’re not going to kill him,” the woman corrects. She isn’t saying it sarcastically or cruelly—more like the weather. “Just hand to hand. We’ve done it before—he can take a good beating.”

Jim has to bite back his reflexive snarl. The thought that it’s happened before... “The doctor told me to keep him alive, and I’m going to. He’s already in a weakened state; you don’t know how much more he can take.” It’s a lie, but they outnumber him, and Jim’s trying to be strategic.

She waves a hand. “Nah, it’s fine. Vulcans are sturdy. You can punch them twice as much as humans and they’ll stay standing.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Jim’s face is probably turning purple. He _tries_ to reel his anger in, but it’s getting worse and worse. The woman snorts. 

“We’re _practicing_ ; that’s the whole point. Look, you can watch him from here, and we’ll bring him back after.” The man starts back in on the ropes, and Jim pushes him away, and the other standing man drags Jim back, cutting in. 

“Hey, we said he can take it, alright?” He steps around Jim and kicks Spock right in the stomach before Jim can protest, and Spock barely winces, just twitches lightly, looks away, and they’re all moving then, grabbing at him while Jim pushes the other man back. But they do out number him, and the standing members of their team drag Jim back by the uniform while they finally release Spock, jerking him to his feet by his hair. When his face is wrenched back, his eyes are scrunched in pain, teeth grit, and they’re all three holding him firm, though Jim knows he’s too weak to fight them. Are Vulcans even capable of their kind of violence? Jim tries to shove past the two in his way, but they hold him back, telling him, “Would you cut it out? You’re guarding him from escaping, not from us!”

Jim couldn’t disagree more. They get Spock to the opening in the fence, shoving him through like herding cattle, and Jim doesn’t care how many of them there are; he’s not going to watch Spock get tied to a training dummy and beaten senseless. His fist clenches at his side, ready to punch out the soldiers in his way, but before he can, a piercing drill rings through the compound. Jim’s hands fly to his ears in shock, and the others go stock-still. 

A split second later, the courtyard bursts to life. The soldiers holding Spock toss him back towards Jim, and he stumbles to the ground, unable to catch himself in time. Various doors around the courtyard are flying open, officers bolting through from either side to dash across, everyone headed for their duty station. Jim has absolutely no idea what’s going on. A drill, he assumes, but he has no idea what to do about it. The woman closest to him barks over the shrill ringing sound, “Tie him up in the supply shed!” Her finger jabs at the open warehouse by the end of the fenced area. The others are already racing off, and she finishes, “Get to your post!” Then she’s gone, kicking up dust in her wake. 

Amidst the following turmoil, no one stops to give Jim a second look as he helps Spock to his feet, brushing off dirt and supporting most of the weight. Spock coughs and rasps, “You need to... need to report,” and Jim knows. He doesn’t know _where_ , because this place is a hodgepodge mess coming apart at the seams, but he could figure it out. He has to tie Spock first. But if he leaves Spock, there’s no telling who else could come along. Spock holds his gaze, sharp and heavy, and tells him, “You must do as they say.” And Jim knows. 

He has to get Spock out of the way, keep him safe while Jim’s gone. They head across the fenced area at as fast a pace as Spock can manage, Spock obediently following him without needing to be tied. Jim has to wonder how long he’s been here, how conditioned he is to this. The ringing’s louder in the building, echoing off the metallic walls. Jim finds a supply shelf and a length of metal chain over one barrel. He hesitates with it in his hand; he doesn’t want to do this. 

But Spock tells him, “If I am found released, I will be killed.” Knowing it’s true doesn’t make it easier. He forces himself to come over. Spock sinks to the floor, sitting cross-legged like usual, and holds his arms behind the pole, wrists together. Jim binds them, mouth dry. There are no words for how awful it feels, but he knows he has no choice. He only hopes he can get back after before the trainees do. It’s silent between them, but the world around them has never been so loud. 

When Jim’s done, Spock tests the bonds and nods. Jim stares at him, wanting to say more. Say something. He stays crouched at Spock’s side, knowing every second that passes is another second he risks his job as a competent guard. Finally, he mumbles, promising something he has no true way to keep, “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Spock replies blankly, “I will endure.” To Jim, it’s not enough. 

When he gets to his feet, his knees are shaky. There’s a door in the back of this warehouse that should cut across to the shuttle bay, and that leaves administration right around the corner. Someone there will tell him what to do. He looks at Spock, nods mostly to himself, and wills his feet to move.

He’s halfway there when an idea occurs to him, a terrible, risky idea that could get them both killed. But could _work_. He has to do something, he knows. And his mind’s already making itself up. He has to _do something._

By the time he gets to his station, he knows he needs to _move_.


	6. ~

It took a surprisingly small amount of planning.

Or maybe it should’ve taken more, and Jim’s just a brash idiot, more confident in his gut reactions than his set ideas. The vast majority of ‘the plan’ hinges on possibilities that could ruin everything, but Jim sucks in a breath and tells himself his intuition is top notch. He can fly by the seat of his pants with the best of them. ...But if that were really true, he would still be at home instead of facing this or jail time. 

When he first wakes up, he stares at the bunk above him for far too long. He hears Sulu get up, and he has half a mind to tell Sulu—if he’s a decent human being, he’ll help. But it’s too risky. So Jim waits for his turn in the bathroom, stalling unnaturally long, and waves at Sulu’s receding back. He shaves, looks in the mirror, sucks in a breath and tells himself he can do this. It’s worth it. He thinks of Spock’s battered body being tied up for target practice, and that’s all the pep talk he needs.

He stays in the barracks an extra few minutes, still shocked he can without someone coming to yell at him. Then he digs a spare uniform out of the locker and somehow manages to get it on over his. It’s a tight fit and makes him stiflingly hot, but it’s necessary. He dons one hat that he almost never wears, but today, it should prove useful. If anyone asks, he’ll say the sun gets in his eyes too much while he’s on duty, and he needs the hat’s brim. He fidgets too much tugging everything in to place, but it should work. 

His walk to his post is a somewhat nervous one. He relieves the guard already there and stands like he always does, noting the way Spock glances at him. From the way Spock’s eyes slip up and down his figure, he thinks his double uniform hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed. But Spock could just be particularly observant. And dressing redundantly is hardly a crime. 

The morning is uneventful, and they don’t talk. It’s a different set in the fenced area than those that Jim’s deemed trouble, and they ignore him. Jim looks straight ahead for most of the time, sweltering under the sun and not wanting to look at Spock. Well, no, he _wants_ to look, but he shouldn’t. Nothing suspicious. The day seems to take forever. By the time Chekov comes to relieve him for break, he’s dying for water. He mumbles, “Thank you,” with a smile, grateful that if it should come to blows between them, he thinks he can win. Chekov’s small, polite. But hopefully things will just work out. 

Jim takes a roundabout way to the cafeteria, one he’s now explored a few times to perfect. He goes through the supply warehouse and past the shuttlebay, eyeing the parked hovercruisers in the back and the two or three less-impressive, low-grade motorcycles. He wasn’t expecting that option; Starfleet’s fallen farther than he thought. But it’s better. That, at least, he knows how to drive. He wanders over with the cover story of being interested in a different duty set, though no one asks him anything, and he’s pleased to find the keys in the ignition. The hovercruisers could probably activate with his DNA registry, but as he’s not authorized in their department, keys are probably a safer option. 

He stops an officer with an open PADD to ask, “Do these things still work?”

She doesn’t look up at them or him, just nods at an older man in the corner and tells him, “Ask Scotty.”

So Jim wanders over to ‘Scotty,’ and repeats, “Do these things still work?”

Scotty’s bent over a hovercruiser, fiddling around with live wires. Jim comes to stand behind him, in front of the bike, and Jim’s nimble fingers manage too easily to find the keys behind his back, stuck in the ignition, just waiting to be turned. He pulls them out while he waits for Scotty’s answer. Immersed in his work, Scotty distractedly tells Jim, “They’re collected for parts. Yeh wouldn’ believe the sorta thing I can get out of them.” He finally stops his work to glance up, squinting at Jim to ask, “You get a transfer here, lad?”

But Jim shakes his head and lies, “Just curious. I’ll be on my way then.” And he shuffles off before anyone can notice anything. As soon as he’s cleared the shuttlebay, he jogs to the cafeteria. He’s already late, but that’s good. That way, Chekov won’t be scheduled to be there and can’t be blamed. 

The cafeteria lady today is a cute brunette with mocha skin, and Jim flirts his way into quite a bit of extra helpings. He was prepared to steal rations—shamefully easy with his delinquent record and unorthodox skills—but flirting’s safer and easier. He piles as much as he can into his hat and thanks her, promising to make her a fantastic meal next time he sees her. He probably never will again, so at least he isn’t really lying. 

Then it’s the hard part. But at least preparations went alright. He weaves his way back through the buildings, walking slowly through the warehouse until he finds what he did the other day—an alarm. Just in case. There’s a subtext under it—pull during alien attack etcetera etcetera—but Jim doesn’t read it. 

He grabs and jerks down the handle.

In a split-second, the air is exploding in an ear-shattering screech, and Jim nearly drops the hat and all his supplies. He sets to motion in a heartbeat, racing for the open doors. 

During a drill, the courtyard is a whole different animal. People are racing either way, paying no mind to one another in their hurry to get to their respective stations. Jim weaves through the scattering trainees to reach Chekov, who looks beyond panicked. Jim shouts a hasty, “Sorry, sorry!” over the whine of the bell. “I’ll handle it and get the prisoner to the warehouse—you get to your post!” Chekov doesn’t need to be told twice—he bolts. 

Jim drops the hat in the dirt and falls to his kneels, untangling Spock’s rope as fast as he can, while Spock looks up at him, eyebrows knit together and painted in confusion. There isn’t time to explain. They need every last second they can get. The signal will undoubtedly be traced to the warehouse, and they need to be gone by the time Starfleet figures out there’s nothing actually wrong. He jerks Spock up to his feet and keeps his hands held behind his back, pushing him quickly towards the warehouse and barking, “Move it!” At the last minute, Jim grabs his hat again with one hand—an apple rolls out, but they’ll have to do without it. 

Spock stumbles on his way to the open building, but there’s no time to be careful or stop. Jim drags Spock behind a stack of boxes and shoves him down—they need to stay out of sight; anyone could cut through here. Then he’s practically ripping off his second shirt and jerking out of his pants, the layers below already soaked with sweat. He chucks the doubled ones at Spock and hisses, “Put them on.” Hopefully Spock can read lips; he probably can’t be heard over the siren. 

Spock just _stares_ at him. They don’t have time for that. Jim dumps the hat out in his lap and shoves it over Spock’s head, tucking Spock’s ears beneath the brim and forcing himself not to linger like he wants to. He throws the shirt around Spock’s shoulders and helps push Spock’s arms through the sleeves, taking it around to hurriedly button up the front. But he stops at two buttons and leaves Spock to do the rest. Spock finally kicks to life and shuffles out of his pants—Jim looks away, though not in time to miss the fact that Spock’s naked beneath them—and then Spock tugs the uniform pants on instead. Jim tries not to picture and amplify what he saw. There’re more important things. He shoves the supplies forward and tells Spock, “Carry as much of this as you can.” Then he sucks his thumb into his mouth, taking it out again to wipe at Spock’s face. All the green blood needs to be gone. The bruises he can’t do anything about. He cleans Spock’s cheek and chips away at Spock’s chin, telling himself he can’t just lick it away like he wants. His brain’s addled and only half functioning—the deafening bell is giving him a headache and he’s in panic mode. But he holds his own; always could.

When he tugs Spock back up, Spock could pass for a cadet, or at least, so long as no one looks too hard. Hopefully no one spares second looks during a drill. Spock tells him once, tone infuriatingly impossible to read, “We will not make it. You will be severely—”

Jim snaps, “I don’t care,” and grabs what he can of the supplies. He steps around Spock and hurries for the back door, immensely relieved when Spock follows. He can’t deal with pseudo-insubordination right now. The ‘plan’ (or complete lack thereof) requires Spock to be on board. 

The shuttlebay is mercifully deserted by the time they get there, though several hovercruisers are missing. It doesn’t matter. If they’re seen, with any luck, it’ll look like two officers racing for patrol. They dart to the end of the building while Jim’s heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. He can’t believe they’re doing this. 

As soon as he reaches a motorcycle, he practically leaps on, and he tells Spock, “Get on behind me and hold on!” Spock obeys instantly, the supplies in his lap pressing into Jim’s lower back. Jim fishes the keys out of his pocket and shoves them into the ignition, a familiar humming jumping to life. It gives him one relieved breath; at least that’s something. 

The motorcycle takes too long to start up, but the minute it does, Jim’s backing up and racing across the building, swerving out, headed straight for the Eastern gates that should, hopefully, not be closed. They’ve never been closed yet. Sulu made it sound like they were open during drills when Jim asked for a basic rundown, but they still need luck. Jim’s always had at least a bit of luck when he really, really needs it. The motorcycle hums and reverberates beneath him in a familiar, reassuring way, and he holds his breath and tells himself he can do this; he’s ridden these things a thousand times and, assuming they have enough fuel, he could outride anyone.

They twist and turn around the compound, darting between buildings, and though they kick up dirt and disrupt flow and almost run over more than one person, no one shouts or chases after them. Two officers on duty, Jim tells himself, like it’ll put the mask right over him. Two officers on duty. Perfectly ordinary. Spock’s arms are tight around his waist, Spock’s chin digs into his shoulder, and he can’t think about the warmth behind him right now, just press on. _They’re really going to make it._

When they cut around the ammunitions’ construct building, the gate’s in sight; grand, metallic doors thrown open as a hovercruiser darts out of them. Jim leans forward and lets the adrenaline swamp his body. He doesn’t pay a second glance to the buildings around them, the enclosing walls or scurrying people. There’s a peak of the outside beyond the door: _trees_. He didn’t even know there were trees out there; just thought it was more dry, empty dirt. But there’s a forest that they dive right into, through the gates too fast for it to really _hit_ home.

It’s not over, of course. Jim keeps driving, keeps his foot on the pedal, goes as fast as he can with Spock silently clinging to him. He should’ve done more. Should’ve checked the gate, should’ve investigated patrol patterns, should’ve made sure the fuel canisters on this model are up for the journey like his old bikes, but if he’d waited too long, Spock might not have been around for it. They dive right through the winding trees, on a makeshift dirt path that’s clearly been cleared by humans. The ground is rough and bumpy and jarring and Jim loves it, desperately wants to stay out here. 

They jerk around a corner and a fork in the road’s coming up. If they had a hovercruiser, he’d burst up through the trees, see his way, but no, then they’d see him. Next to his ear, Spock says over the now-distant ringing and the roar of the bike, “Left.” So Jim takes the left path, heart racing. 

“You need to go back,” Spock continues. His voice sounds numb, shocked, but Jim can’t afford to turn and look; the path is too winding, and the last thing they need is to be thrown from their seats. His body’s too set in overdrive to process his own shock, his own emotions—they’re actually _out._ Spock repeats, “Jim, you must—”

“I’m not going back,” Jim half-shouts over the wind.

“There is still time. You can say I escaped on my own—”

“I don’t want to go back!” Besides, they have a shipful of Vulcans to find. A whole new life Jim would rather have. Being on the run is nothing to him. Spock’s arms tighten around his waist, and if he weren’t gripping the handlebars so tight that his knuckles were paling, he’d hold them back. The thought of getting caught is heavy on him, but it would never make him turn around. If nothing else, he couldn’t have lived his life knowing he never tried. 

A few more maybe-minutes of anxiety-filled driving at top speed, and Spock’s face presses into the back of his neck. He can feel it, thinks it might be a physical thank you, some form of desperation. He wants to look back and see Spock’s reaction. He wants to pull over and ask how Spock is, hold him and tell him it’ll be alright. Even if it won’t. They never talked about this. He just... just _moved_. And now he’s racing Spock away through a nondescript forest in the middle of who-knows-where. 

But another tense minute, and Spock murmurs in his ear, “ _Thank you._ ” Even with the roar of the engine and wind, it’s clear in Jim’s head. 

Jim keeps driving, never looking back.


	7. ~

They ride straight through the night. The engine’s noise is unsettling loud, but there are no signs of trouble other than the distant re-ringing of the drill bell about an hour into the darkness. If Starfleet is looking for them, they’re not doing the best job. But that’s nothing new.

Adrenaline carries Jim on for most of it. It’s the longest bike ride he’s ever taken in one sitting, only made doable by his own fears and Spock’s directions along the winding paths. How Spock can tell the paths apart, knows where to go, Jim has no idea. Maybe he remembers being brought here. Once, they reach an open field, but Jim stays glued to the tree line just in case, ready to weave back into the forest at the first sign of trouble. He wishes more than once he had a helmet to keep the wind out of his face and hair. He has a few swigs of water along the way and doesn’t eat. 

By the time the sun’s back up, he’s too sick to keep driving, and they’ve hit a split in the path that starts in on more rocky terrain, ducking in and out of hills. If there are mountains around here, Jim hasn’t properly seen any yet, though the trees could’ve hidden smaller ones. Maybe there’re just rocky areas not that different. They pull over under the shadow of one overreaching cliff face, and Jim examines the tires—durable, yes, but this road isn’t meant to be ridden like this. 

It’s the first time they’ve had a real chance to talk since they started. Jim sits to lean against the bike, expecting Spock to do the same, but Spock’s busy prying a small box from the end of the motorcycle’s seat that Jim hadn’t even noticed. It’s not like there was time to inspect it though. Perhaps because he’s looking, Spock says into the ether, “It is running a diagnostic.”

“A tricorder?” Jim asks, voice caught in his throat. Starfleet could trace that. But then, Starfleet should be able to track life signs too. With the right tools and resources, anyway.

Spock says, “Something like that,” and carefully pulls it off. He moves to sit beside Jim, knee to knee, and stares at the small box through the darkness of their shadowed hiding place. A few seconds of observation, and he begins tapping away at the buttons, informing Jim, “I will set it to emit a jamming signal that should mask our life signs.”

Smart. Jim should’ve thought of that. He wants to ask how far it is to more technology—the crash site of Spock’s ship. But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to know the answer. Maybe it’s a week away: something they don’t have enough supplies for. Maybe it’s too obvious a place to be and they’ll be captured as soon as they hit it, or maybe Starfleet already took everything there was to see. He tries not to think about it. They need some sort of destination, and he has no idea where the closest town is. Better that than nothing.

He sits back and watches Spock work, impressed. Considering what he’s gone through, Spock’s mental functions don’t seem at all diminished. He navigates the miniature console easily, in a way that Jim never could. The government’s propaganda on aliens is never good, and it never lets them appear intelligent. Jim always figured that had to be a lie; idiots can’t build and fly a starship. Spock confirms every suspicion he’s ever held, breaks every rumour. Jim can’t help but ask, “What were you...? For a job, I mean.”

“I served on a science vessel,” Spock tells him, glancing over before returning full concentration to the tricorder. “We were dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge.”

“Exploring?” Jim clarifies, and something in him drags a wince out—that’s _his_ dream: something he’s always wanted and couldn’t have. 

Spock rephrases, “Studying.” But it doesn’t sound that different. It’s just another part of the same whole. Finally, Spock finishes, though he doesn’t put the tricorder back right away. Instead, he turns between them and hovers it over the bike, announcing, “We should have adequate fuel to reach the crash site. Assuming Starfleet has yet to completely decimate the remains, we should be able to refuel there.” Jim nods. Good; it’s not impossible, then. Well, no, it is; this whole foolish ‘plan’ is impossible, but it’s the sort of unlikelihood that Jim can work with. Snapping the tricorder shut, Spock fixes it to the back of the motorcycle again. 

They don’t have a lot of rations. Some of it really is just _rations_ , the gross, pre-packed, re-arranged proteins kind. Jim unwraps a square anyway; he can’t drive forever on an empty stomach. He has to resist the urge to hold the first bite over to Spock; he’s gotten too used to feeding a man that can now feed himself. 

Spock doesn’t eat anything, probably because, as he’s said, he can last longer without. While Jim quietly chews and watches a lizard appear over one of the rocks outside their shelter, Spock repeats, “Thank you for abducting me.”

Jim smiles on instinct, so hard and sudden that he almost chokes on his protein square. He never thought he’d smile while eating one of these. It’s nice to hear both the words and the gentle tone from Spock, but more so, he feels the need to correct, “Rescuing.” He’s not sure what strict definition Spock attributes to the word, but surely it’s closer than _abducting_. 

Undeterred, Spock merely continues, “I am grateful. I do recognize that it was hardly logical of you.” Jim reaches for the water, and Spock passes him the half-empty bottle.

After a quick mouthful, Jim shakes his head. “No, I had to.”

“That is incorrect. You risked your own status by showing kindness to a prisoner, and by taking me, you risked far more. You had nothing to gain from it.”

“That’s not true.” Jim’s head is shaking harder. He looks at Spock, though he isn’t surprised that Spock doesn’t look like he understands; for Vulcans, logic seems to be such a black-and-white thing. It isn’t. Saving Spock was so fundamentally _right_ that it’s difficult to explain in words. “I had peace of mind to gain. No one should’ve gone through what you did, and seeing you treated with such cruelty day in and day out was seriously more than I could take. ...And I got the impression I wasn’t even seeing the worst of it. For my own sanity, I had to try and do something. Logical or not, it was the _right_ thing to do.” He might be leaning a little closer now, riled up with his own words. He tries not to think of what they left behind, of all the things Marcus put Spock through before Jim was there, when Jim wasn’t looking. Spock’s dark eyes are fixed on his, somehow both full of a deep maturity and an almost naïve lack of understanding. Jim shifts one hand to Spock’s knee, squeezing lightly through the green uniform fabric and reassuring, “I _had_ to.” There was no choice. It would’ve eaten him up otherwise. 

Spock doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t argue. His gaze slides over Jim’s fingers, and Jim knows he should pull his hand back but doesn’t. He looks at the side of Spock’s face, at the way his ears disappear under the wide brim of the hat. It looks cute on him, in a way. The whole uniform looks good on him, even if it represents something less than savoury. It’s form fitting and better than the rags Spock was left in. Maybe in another world’s fleet uniform, somewhere else, he’d look perfect.

Eventually, he lifts his hand hesitantly over Jim’s. When he puts it down, there’s a certain reservation, like he expects to be slapped for daring to touch a human. Jim just flips his around, fingers wrapping over Spock’s hand for support. It’s a whole different world outside of those walls; it’s just the two of them. 

“I owe you a great debt,” Spock tells him quietly. Jim doesn’t want anything but this, and maybe peace, something Spock can’t give him, not on this wretched planet. 

Somehow he winds up answering, “Show me the stars and we’ll call it even.” Spock looks up at him like he’s asking for them hand-delivered, and Jim offers a weak smile. “When we find your crew, well... if they’ll have me... I mean, I can’t exactly blend back in here, can I?”

“I will find a way to get you where you wish to be.” It doesn’t have to be that specific.

“The stars are good.”

Spock simply nods. Lifting his free hand back to his mouth, Jim continues to go through the protein square. When he looks back outside their large shadow, the lizard’s disappeared from sight. The square tastes a little more bearable now, or maybe it’s just that the general tension’s been eased. And Spock’s still holding his hand. It’s no real help, but facing what they are, it’s something to know they’re not alone. 

When he’s done eating, he crumples the wrapper, and Spock suggests, “We should put these back in my hat.”

Though Jim points out, “If we’re caught and you don’t have it, we can’t pretend to be just two officers.”

“It is unlikely they will believe us, regardless.”

Jim shrugs. “I dunno—I’m pretty good at bullshit. But I haven’t got a shot if they can see your ears.” As cute as they are. But Jim doesn’t add that. He likes the way Spock looks in the hat, or maybe just likes the way Spock looks period, but it’s also important to their survival. Spock’s right though. It would help if they could bundle their supplies. It’s warm now, but it’ll get too cold later to use one of their shirts. He could maybe remove his socks, but they smell enough as it is. They’re both looking around, but there’s nothing else. So Jim concedes with a sigh, “Alright, but dump everything and put the hat on the minute we see anyone else.”

Spock nods as curtly as though saluting a captain. Jim helps stuff their supplies back into the hat, and he wishes belatedly that he’d thought to bring soap. 

They climb back onto the bike, Spock saddled up behind him and the hat pinned between them. Spock’s knees press into the back of his thighs, Spock’s arms wrapping around his sides, Spock’s chin settling onto his shoulder. It’s contact everywhere, and Jim stays fixed forward lest Spock catch his face, probably blushing. His arms are sore, but they need to keep going. 

The motorcycle starts up easily, and they make their way back down the rocks in the direction Spock suggests, weaving once or twice down different paths to avoid jagged rocks—if the tires pierce, they have no replacements. They work back into more grass and trees after a while—a relief, even if it will make their trail easier to spot. With any luck, the rockier parts will throw them off and the crushed grass will be too hidden by trees for aerial views to help. With better luck, there won’t be enough resources to mount a full search in the first place. 

After not having any sleep the first night and still going for most of today, Jim has a hard time keeping fully awake. He knows he has to, but the longer it’s been since he saw an actual threat, the less adrenaline carries him on. Around midday, he knows he’s not competent to drive properly, and he pulls over next to a fallen log over a patch of particularly bumpy tree roots through one of the natural trails. He looks over his shoulder to sigh, “I don’t think I can stay awake much longer.”

“It would not be wise to stop in daylight,” Spock points out, and Jim knows. “Would it be possible for me to steer and you to hold onto me whilst sleeping?”

Jim hadn’t even thought of that. Thinking, he asks, “Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?”

“I believe I have driven both similar and far more complicated crafts.” Which is still, essentially, a ‘no.’ But it’s something, and they really can’t afford to stop.

“If I was asleep, I wouldn’t be holding on properly. I’d probably fall off.”

“Perhaps if you slept where you were, then, and I simply steered around you. My arms would be able to keep you up.” Jim’s eyebrows lift; he doubts that. It sounds... sort of ridiculous. But Spock insists, “Vulcans possess superior strength. I believe I could keep you upright if you were turned to straddle the seat and nestled against me in the appropriate position.”

“I didn’t know there was an appropriate position for sleeping on a motorcycle,” Jim snorts. It still sounds dangerous. ...But then, this whole thing is dangerous. 

There’s not much choice, really. Sighing, Jim throws his leg over the front, dismounting but still in his seat. Sitting sideways, he looks at Spock, insisting, “If we do try it, you have to stop or at least slow at the earliest sign of discomfort or that I might fall.”

“Of course. Vulcans also possess advanced reflexes; it would not be enough of a distraction to cause me to lose control of the bike or an understanding of our surroundings.” 

“Well, aren’t you fantastical.” It’s not exactly sarcasm. Just a little laugh. Spock looks confused, but Jim just grins, shaking his head as he turns more around, facing Spock as much as he can with his legs straddling the bike. He doesn’t quite know what to do. He’s never been stupid enough to try something like this before, and that’s saying something. 

“Lean on me,” Spock suggests softly, his hand coming to guide Jim’s back. Jim tries to take the words objectively, to listen. He lets his head rest against Spock’s shoulder, forehead pressed into the crook of Spock’s neck, and he rearranges the hat between them. “Put your arms around me.” Jim does so, even though, if he falls asleep, they probably won’t hold. He reaches all the way around to lock his hands together as solidly as he can manage. This might be easier if he straddled Spock’s lap, hooked both legs around Spock’s body like a child, clinging tightly. But that would be too awkward, he tells himself. He settles for this. 

He nuzzles into Spock’s neck under the guise of getting comfortable, still a bit nervous but nonetheless dead tired and worried. They have to keep moving. “Ready.”

Spock’s arms come up around him. They reach for the handlebars, and they do squeeze close, holding Jim up like a pillar. “Unlock the break,” Jim mumbles, but Spock doesn’t seem to need instructions. Jim can feel his legs shifting into position, and in a strange, backwards moment, the world sets to motion again. 

Jim’s sure he’ll never sleep like this. He clings extra hard, unsettled with only being able to see where they’re headed over his shoulder. He flattens into Spock’s body, needing that solid reassurance to feel okay. Spock simply drives, holding him and steering so easily: such an amazing creature. 

Jim falls asleep in Spock’s arms bizarrely fast, and the crash he expects never comes.


	8. ~

By the time the third night rolls around, Spock needs sleep. Jim knows he can’t maneuver around that, can’t hold Spock up like Spock held him. He could use some proper rest anyway, and napping on a moving motorcycle is hardly ideal. They’ve had tremendous luck so far—no Starfleet interventions. But that’s no reason not to be cautious, and they wait until they come across a hollowed out cave nestled under one of the rocky grooves in the forest. It’s small, just barely big enough to tug the bike into, but it’ll have to do. How Spock spotted it from the road, Jim has no idea; the trees block most of the entrance. 

Inside, it’s pitch black. The stars and moon only do so much at the mouth of the cave, though it’s not that deep, probably just Jim’s height in length. He parks the bike as far in as he can, and he sits near the back wall. He has to fumble for the supplies to get any—one of the last two protein squares and a bit of their last water bottle. They’re running out of time, and Jim admits aloud, “I don’t know where the nearest town is.”

“Longer than the motorcycle would last, even with fuel from my vessel.” Spock sits beside him—Jim can hear and feel it more than see it. Only the faintest sliver outlines Spock’s silhouette, covering all his features. Jim knows what he looks like by now. What he feels like. What he smells like. Jim offers the last protein square, pressing it against Spock’s thigh, but Spock pushes it back to Jim’s lap—he’s been fasting in the name of stretching supplies as far as possible. “At our current rate of speed, we should be able to reach it tomorrow. It is possible we will be able to retrieve fuel and food. From there, I will use the computer system to see if my family has been able to leave me any clues, assuming, of course, that they do not presume me dead.” Jim’s nodding, even though Spock can’t see it. It’s a good plan. Or, at least, it’s _a_ plan. That’s more than Jim has. 

A few more bites into the protein square, Jim asks, “What’s your family like?” It’s supposed to be just conversation, but he does find himself curious. He’s always curious about the enigma that is _Spock_ , after how much they’ve been together, just the two of them, it doesn’t feel like they should have any secrets. Jim should know Spock inside and out. Spock makes a sighing sort of noise; Jim thinks he’s thinking. 

“My father is an important man on Vulcan. He is known, despite his strict adherence to Surak’s teachings of logic, for his... odd moments of exploration.” It’s clear that Spock’s finding it difficult to express that properly. He pauses.

Jim snorts. Trust Vulcans to think exploration odd. Obviously this particular crew was foolish enough to stray too close to Earth, but Jim still finds himself asking, “For example...?”

“For example, his siring of a half-human son.”

Jim starts abruptly. His reaction is part physical; his head whips around and his knee jerks against Spock’s, turning to face the Vulcan—or, apparently, half-Vulcan. Spock hasn’t mentioned any brothers. “You’re...” He doesn’t need the answer. The silence is enough. “Fuck. And Starfleet still... and you’re partially one of us...” Somehow, that makes it even sicker. They must’ve known. The doctor, at least, should’ve found out. And they still treated him like dirt. The hand Jim’s not using to eat reaches out, steadying itself on Spock’s thigh. He says, “I’m sorry.” It can’t really be any consolation now, but it’s all Jim has to offer.

“It is not your fault.”

“I know, but...” Jim trails off, shaking his head. Then it occurs to him to ask, “And you’re accepted back on Vulcan? Even when you’re half alien to them...?”

“Yes. My mother is fully human. She lives what I believe to be a normal life.”

“Good.” Good in more ways than one. Then Jim can come, too. And at least this means that Spock must have tolerance at home, that his whole life won’t be the lies Starfleet tries to ingrain in everyone. Vaguely, Jim wonders what they look like, Spock’s parents. He pictures a tall, stoic Vulcan, an older version of Spock, and a pretty, interesting blonde woman with blue eyes. While he finishes his food, he asks, “And the rest...?”

“The rest of my crew is unrelated or only distantly related to me. There is another alien aboard from a species you will likely not have met before.”

Finished, Jim perks up, over-interested. Before Starfleet, he’d never met an alien, and now, apparently, he’s only met a half-alien. “What are they?”

“Roylan.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Fortunately, most humans have not.”

Jim snorts by way of agreement. “Yeah, for their sake, it should stay that way. Unless we wise up, of course. I’d like to think we’re not _all_ as bad as Starfleet makes us look.” He crumples up the wrapper and leaves it in the hat with all their other garbage; Spock won’t let him litter. Spock goes quiet again while Jim pushes the hat aside. There’s no sense explaining his family; there’s not much to tell, and Spock’s probably had enough humans for a good while. Jim hopes he won’t see his own mother any less for it. 

The whole point of the cave is for sleep, though Jim still stalls in lying down; the dirt floor isn’t particularly comfortable. It’s too cold to take off his shirt, and he wishes he’d brought a jacket, but he knows there was no time. He’ll have to use his arm for a pillow and make the best of it. It’s not like he’s never roughed it before, but usually when camping, he’d have the foresight to at least bring a sleeping bag or a pillow or _something._

When Spock shifts to lie down too, Jim murmurs, “We should lie close together to preserve body heat.” It’s true, but he knows he said it too eagerly. At least it’s dark enough to hide his blush. There’s not that much room in the cave anyway. Jim guides Spock around him to sleep against the wall, so Jim can be closer to the entrance and feel like he’s on guard duty, protecting Spock once again. Spock lies down on his back, his arm sandwiched against Jim’s. It’s no double bed, but it’ll have to do. 

Only a few minutes pass before Jim’s pressing closer under the guise of being cold. Spock doesn’t react. Jim can’t see properly, especially with himself blocking what little light there might be, but he thinks Spock’s eyes are closed. He’s probably trying to slip into sleep right away, preserve his energy as efficiently as possible. It leaves Jim in that awkward human phase of not quite being able to sleep whilst uncomfortable. And except for the arm that’s touching Spock, he’s very uncomfortable. He keeps shifting, trying to get the roots and rocks that dig into his back into different places, but it doesn’t work. 

Finally, he rolls over, facing Spock, closer, and uses that arm as a pillow. His chest’s still touching Spock’s arm, and he pushes his leg forward so those are touching too. The forest beyond them is quiet, the occasional cricket or bird nattering in the distance. Jim’s hungry, thirsty, sore and gross. But he thinks they’re going to make it, and that’s what matters. 

A few minutes later, and his mind’s wandering tiredly, still not deep enough to rest. He thinks of what he can’t see, all the curves and contours of Spock’s body that he could be so close to, could be snuggled up against. He wishes he could look at Spock’s face. He knows that Spock’s incredibly handsome. He knows he shouldn’t be staring, but then, he can’t see anything anyway. Spock’s handsome and intelligent, sturdy and such a good partner for Jim—he’s brave, and cooperative, and helpful, and somehow, the two of them have made it this far. On his own, Jim probably couldn’t have gotten away. 

He sighs, and Spock murmurs, “You are awake?” 

Jim whispers back, “Yeah.” He wonders if Spock can feel Jim’s breath on his face. It’s hard to tell how close they are. Spock can probably see his silhouette, probably knows he’s on his side. For a moment, it’s just quiet. 

Then Spock takes a breath. Jim can hear him hesitating, nervous under all that Vulcan sureness, before mumbling, “I know that... that as a Vulcan my body can hardly be appealing to you, but... I have nothing else to offer you in payment for the freedom you have given me.” While Spock hesitates more, Jim freezes, caught in shock at Spock’s soft but level words. “If you wished it, I would give you what I could.”

“ _Shit_.” Jim didn’t mean to say that. But he did. He rolls onto his back suddenly, head thunking against the hard ground, and he’s simultaneously horny and small as an ant. It’s his fault, he knows it. Spock’s caught him staring, caught him squeezing too tight on the bike or nuzzling too close. It’s the only explanation for the sudden offer. He wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, that’ll properly convey how terrible a person he is and how much worse it would be if he did that. Yes, he was just thinking about Spock’s foreign beauty, but... he hardly wants it as _payment._

“I couldn’t do that,” Jim finally mumbles.

“In this darkness, my heritage need not be apparent. I would forgo speech if that would help in pretending I were someone else as well as human.”

“No, Spock—” Jim cuts off in a dry laugh that he immediately regrets. It’s not funny. He’s just feeling mildly hysterical. “I wouldn’t...” His head rolls to face Spock, a thought occurring belatedly and putting guilt and pain into his voice, “You think I’m like that? That I wouldn’t want you just because you’re part Vulcan?”

A minute later, Spock finally answers, “I apologize. Please forget my distasteful suggestion.” And he rolls onto his side, facing the cave wall, taking his body away from Jim’s. With no point of contact, Jim loses Spock’s body heat and the feeling of where he is—Jim reaches a hand for his shoulder, squeezing lightly on impact. It hurts to be apart at this point.

“It wasn’t distasteful. I... shit, I’m sorry, Spock.”

“You have done nothing wrong.”

“I...” Jim winds up in a frustrated noise. There’s so many things _wrong_ with the turn this conversation took that he doesn’t know where to start. “Look, you’re _not_ unappealing. I think you’re gorgeous, both as a person and physically.” Hoping this will help and isn’t crossing the line, Jim swallows and continues, “Trust me, I would _love_ to have your body. I know you’ve been told that humans see you as something you’re not, and I get that of course you’d think that, but I’m not like that. I think you’re beautiful. Frankly, I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my life.” ...That probably went too far. His face is red. He should’ve shut up. Somehow, once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. He can feel Spock’s reaction under his fingers, and finally, Spock slowly turns over, onto his back again, and Jim keeps his hand there. He knows Spock’s looking at him, can see the miniscule glimmer in Spock’s eyes and _feel_ it. Gulping over the sheer force of it, Jim finishes, “But I won’t force myself on you.”

Spock whispers, “I was not proposing force.”

“You were proposing giving me your body as payment as a last resort. That’s not consent.” It’s shamefully hard to turn this down, but he has to. He doesn’t want just sex out of Spock anyway, and he won’t take anything that isn’t truly given freely. Still, his hand slides through the dark, drifts up Spock’s neck to cup Spock’s cheek. He couldn’t say why. His fingers slip through Spock’s silky hair, and his thumb brushes up and over the point of Spock’s ear. He could _definitely_ get used to that difference.

He forces himself to pull his hand away. It’s too hard. It’s all too hard. He shifts over onto his side, facing the other way, drearily watching the scenery beyond their cave and fervently trying to ignore all the things they’ve kicked up. This complicates everything. He didn’t think it was a possibility before. That Spock would consider a man, a human, anyone. But technically, he still hasn’t. Still, it’s put their journey and their partnership in a whole different light on Jim’s side. He wishes Spock hadn’t said anything. 

A part of him’s still horribly hoping Spock persists, that Spock will pull up tight and spoon him, wrap strong arms around him and litter his neck with kisses. But that doesn’t happen. They both lie where they are, and in time, Jim slips off to sleep, alone.


	9. ~

They pass a river in the morning and vaguely line it from the nearest path. Though Jim’s hyper aware of how much they smell, he doesn’t feel safe enough to suggest bathing. Not until they find the crash site, at least. He’s too on edge; they’ve too little time. If there’s nothing left, or Spock can’t get any information, they’ll be left with plan A gone and no plan B to replace it. So he steers along the forest path with the faint sound of the river lost over the noise of the engine and the wind. Spock’s arms are wrapped around Jim’s chest, because Jim doesn’t want them over his stomach; it’s too discontent. Now there’s only a water bottle between them, Spock’s hat firmly back on. 

Jim tries to stay conscious and alert for as long as he can, but it’s a boring drive and his body doesn’t have much to work with. He’s cramped up both from the lack of a proper bed and the long hours stuck in this position. Around noon, he can’t take it anymore. The sun’s high overhead and boring down, and they switch. It’s easier to hold on than drive. Spock drives a little slower than him but is otherwise competent. He doesn’t seem to mind where Jim puts his hands. So Jim holds onto Spock’s waist and tries to keep his fingers from straying. Spock doesn’t smell so bad, probably not as bad as he does. Mildly musky, masculine, but there’s something spicy and _different_ that Jim can’t place—some alien makeup. He enjoys it more than he should, content that Spock can’t hear him sniffing over the rushing air. Spock never voices any of the complaints in Jim’s head. If he’d chosen this journey, Jim would still pick Spock to come with him. The perfect adventurer, even if he probably wouldn’t be able to ‘stop and smell the flowers.’

By the time it starts too cool off again, the sunlight in its last few hours, Jim’s too weak to stay awake but too uncomfortable to sleep. Everything in his body’s protesting. He’s polished off the water bottle, but his stomach is yearning for solid food. He finds himself peering blearily over Spock’s shoulder, hoping for the signs of a giant metal dome, some crashed shuttlecraft—though he’s got no idea what Vulcan spacecrafts look like—but there’s nothing. Spock starts to slow and veers off a little through the trees, ducked under another rocky hill. He has to stop only a short way in; the floor is too knotted and uneven to drive over. He turns the motorcycle off and lays a hand over Jim’s—a signal to let go. 

Jim does so reluctantly. He wants to say that he can keep going, even though he feels like he can’t, and it’s too early to stop and rest. He doesn’t like the thought of having to hunt. He still climbs off when Spock does. Spock stops to walk forward, turns, and waits for Jim. Perhaps because Jim’s hobbling slower than average, Spock lifts one hand. Jim slips his into it, fingers locking together. There’s an instant spark when they touch, a faint tingling that seems to arise only from contact with _Spock_ —Jim’s never felt anything like it with anyone else. It gives him the strength he needs. He lets Spock drag him through the trees, the parallel river now louder through the silence. 

A bit of walking and winding through the dense forest slope, and Jim sees why they stopped. He sighs aloud and resists voicing the full extent of his relief in the interest of looking strong. There’s a long, flat, oval-ish sort of ship on the side of the hill, crushing trees and scraped between rocks. The outside is a coppery colour, covered in geometric tracings. There’s a large, upright circle near the back, dark blue on the inside. It doesn’t look like anything Jim’s ever seen before. As soon as he’s through the trees, he stops to admire it. 

It’s a small thing. Only the size of maybe two transport shuttles—Jim supposes it could house a few dozen people, no more. He’s no engineer, but he can see the glass-like wall of the cockpit, the open doors, and what likely functions as nacelles. Spock waits for Jim to finish gaping, and eventually, his empty stomach urges him on. 

The ramp’s dented and broken, so it’s a bit of a climb inside, and there are no lights on. The only illumination is that through the doors and the tinted windows, but it’s enough to get a sense of the damage: half the systems have been ripped clean away. Hanging wires and fallen panels are everywhere, absolutely no care involved in the disassembly. In a way, it’s difficult to look at. Just another example of sheer needles disrespect. 

Spock heads straight to the back, not blinking an eye at the blatant damage. Jim couldn’t expect any other reaction, but he knows that if this was _his_ ship, he’d be on his knees. Spock weaves between the seats and finds an untouched panel in the wall that he presses near the top, until it gives way and springs out. Inside, he pulls loose a tray of what Jim assumes to be non-perishable rations. He takes his hat off and begins to pile them in, while Jim drifts slowly closer, still looking around. 

“We should wait until we’re out of here to eat,” Jim decides.

“I agree.” Spock takes all the rations left; it looks like it should last them another few days, assuming some of the odd shapes hold water. Spock fits the panel back in place and surveys his surroundings, probably looking for a console that isn’t completely decimated. After a bit of searching, he finds one at the head of the ship. Jim sits back in one of the chairs and just rests while Spock works. He can’t offer any help right now, but he watches the reflections of the rebooted screen sift across Spock’s face and the subtle changes in Spock’s expression. For a long while, the sun just sinks and Spock just sorts through the computer, and Jim grows less and less alert and more and more lethargic. He curls up in the chair, and he almost drifts to sleep. 

But Spock shakes him lightly at some point, and Jim yawns and stretches back out. Spock informs him, “I believe I have located my crew. I may be able to recharge our vehicle, and given that, we should be able to reach them within a few days. As we are not guaranteed a straight path and I have not been past this location, I cannot be more specific.”

“You don’t need to,” Jim mumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Do you want help refueling?” 

“I should be able to manage. You would be better off resting; you will need your strength for the journey ahead.”

“This is hardly a safe spot to rest.”

“Nevertheless, our need for fuel will keep us here regardless of how you utilize the opportunity.”

Fair enough. Jim’s felt like the leader for most of this, but a good leader knows when to listen to his commanding officer. So Jim concedes, alright, and takes the hat from Spock’s hands. “Call me when you’re done. We’ll drive a little ways, then stop to eat, then drive until we’re too tired or it’s too dangerous.” Spock nods in agreement and disappears out the door. 

It’s difficult to get a good position in the chairs, built for functionality as they are, but it’s easier than on the motorcycle. He puts the hat at the base of the chair and hugs himself, trying to conserve warmth. It’d be easier, he thinks, nicer, if they just curled up together on the floor. Spock’s softer than these chairs are. Warmer. Better. But this is more realistic, and Jim tries to take this chance for rest while he can. 

With how hungry and sore he is, it’s difficult, but after a time, he drifts into a dreamless abyss. It’s that heavy in-between state where he’s not always sure he’s asleep, but he’s never conscious enough to form a coherent thought. 

By the time Spock wakes him, the sun’s setting through the windows and the ship’s full of long shadows. Spock helps him out and down the ramp, holding him when he sleepily stumbles, and Jim covers his blush by turning away to yawn. Spock’s got the bike parked outside, and it occurs to Jim, too late, that he should’ve helped Spock carry it down. 

Together, they carry it back up to the main path. Or at least, the part that’s better for riding. They climb on, Spock in the front. It’s harder to keep the hat between them when it’s this full—it forces their lower bodies apart, but it’s a necessity. Jim keeps his arms low to bracket it. Even if Spock’s people are just camping out in rocky caves, Jim’s looking forward to finding them. Nonstop travel with hardly any supplies and no helmet and no map is very disconcerting. He’s a born adventurer, but... there’re limits. 

They must be at it for another few hours before Jim’s shaking from hunger and the overhanging trees are blocking the star and moonlight too much to drive safely. So much for stopping to eat and getting back to it. They keep going anyway until they find a suitable place to hide—a sharp slope where borrowing downhill makes them invisible to the road. It’s more comfortable to lie in with grass and moss and ferns than the solid ground. Spock hands him two sets of rations—one that Jim finds to be water and the other that turns out to be the blandest ‘food’ he’s ever eaten. It’s incredibly filling though; he can tell it’s the sort of heavy-duty thing engineered for just such a purpose. He’s sure it must be ridiculously nutritious, but it doesn’t make the blaring lack of flavour any easier to take. 

While they both eat, leaning against twin trees with their legs touching, Spock says, “Thank you for feeding me.” Jim’s cheeks colour, and he doesn’t look over for just that reason. 

“No problem.” 

“It was, though.” They both know he could’ve gotten in grave trouble. It doesn’t matter.

“I couldn’t let you starve.” He gets about halfway through his bar and isn’t sure he can manage the rest. He glances aside, and Spock’s three quarters through his. Evidently, the taste doesn’t bother him. 

Distasteful though the action might be, Jim lifts his hand before he can stop himself. He holds his own bar out to Spock’s lips, and Spock glances at it, expression utterly unreadable, no matter how good Jim’s gotten. After a minute of just the sounds of the steady river in the distance, Jim mumbles, “Sorry,” and starts to pull his hand back. 

Spock darts out to take a bite from Jim’s bar first, chewing after and licking the stray crumbs from his lips. It’s hardly dignified, not very Vulcan. But it’s oddly alluring and makes Jim squirm. 

Spock tells him, “You are a very strange human.”

Full of childish butterflies instead of blood and guts, Jim mutters, “Thanks.”


	10. ~

Another day and it’s just getting ridiculous. If they’re going to reunite Spock with his family, it shouldn’t be like this. They pass a small enclave with an offshoot of water: a small, serene pool tucked half under a rock ledge. They carry the bike between a smattering of trees, hopefully hidden, and they head towards the rock. Their clothes could use a wash too, but they don’t have time to dry them off after, so there’s no sense going in like this. Spock doesn’t head off to undress, so Jim doesn’t either. 

He strips right next to Spock, trying desperately not to look over. The green fabric’s practically glued to him with sweat, and it’s slow going. He tries not to be self-conscious. Besides, Spock probably isn’t looking. And he’s always been told he looks good naked anyway. Of course, he’s never had an audience like Spock before. 

Still trying not to look at his companion, Jim climbs over the rocky beach and dabs his bundled clothes in the water, then rings them out, does it again, and rings them out again. He heads back to the trees and hangs them up over branches, hoping they’ll dry quickly under the hot sun. Spock steps up beside him, doing the same, and Jim ruins everything by glancing sideways. 

Spock’s _beautiful_. Of course he is. He’s lean, long, toned and tinted yellow. Jim’s seen him half naked before, but never without pants. And now without underwear. Jim gets one quick look at a long, thick shaft nestled in a heavy smattering of dark tufts, and then he forces himself to turn back to the water. He doesn’t want to know. If Spock has the prettiest cock in the universe, he doesn’t want to know. He’s got it bad enough. Together they traverse the rocks, going slow so as not to slip. It dips into a deeper part nearer the cliff, and that’s where Jim heads—the shadow that casts over that side of the pool is what’ll give them true cover. The blue sky above is lovely, but it isn’t safe. 

The cool water slips up his calves, over his legs, swallows his thighs and his stomach, and soon he’s half wading, half swimming forward. The water’s perfectly clear, but the shadow he ducks into obscures part of it. There don’t seem to be any fish here, but then, he’s not sure Spock would let him eat a fish anyway. And he’s not sure he’d want to actually catch and prepare one. Synthesized meat is one thing, live meat is something else. He wonders absently what sort of diet Vulcans prefer, but he supposes he’ll find out soon enough. 

Spock settles beside him against the rock. Jim’s found something of a ledge to sit on, leaving his shoulders and head out of the water, and when he moves aside, there’s room for Spock. He tries to look out at the scenery, at the slowly moving water that feeds in and around to the faster river, the trees swooping up on the other side to cover any semblance of the road or hills. From the way the sky glitters off the surface of the water, it feels like some peaceful vacation. It’s soothing enough against his sore muscles. Spock reminds him quietly, “We must not indulge ourselves too long. The longer we stay in one place, the more of a target we are.”

Jim says, “Yeah,” but he wishes it wasn’t true. He takes a deep breath.

He shoves himself under the water and throws himself back up, spluttering and coughing and wiping the stray droplets away from his eyes. He smoothes his hair down and runs his fingers through it—shampoo or conditioner would be nice. He can feel Spock’s eyes curiously playing over him, but he can’t open his long enough to look back—he’s still blinking away bits of moisture. A second later, Spock follows his example, and Jim’s splattered with the remains. Jim wipes at his eyes until he can see again. 

When Spock resurfaces, Jim looks at him, at the way his wet hair sticks to his forehead and flattens all around him, the way his long fingers part through it. When he combs his bangs back, he looks sort of funny, strange and different—he’s only had one look since Jim met him. He combs them back into place a moment later, glancing at Jim. He’s probably noticed Jim staring. Jim can feel his cheeks heating, but he doesn’t look away fast enough to not get caught, and then there doesn’t seem like any point to it. He watches the little rivers slip down Spock’s moist skin, tiny crystals clinging to his eyelashes and the corners of his lips. Spock should’ve sat further away—they’re too close. 

Something comes over Jim—the tingling force of pent up _want_ and the unmistakable attraction between two people. He knows he shouldn’t, tries not to, but his head leans forward anyway, lips parted only a fraction as he presses them lightly against the side of Spock’s mouth. He lingers a full second, then pulls back, and he looks at Spock’s eyes to mumble, “Sor—”

But Spock’s lunged at him, kissing him harder, an arm snaking around his waist below the water. He knows it’s Spock’s arm, can feel two fingers, held together, sliding up the curve of his back, urging him closer. He turns, and Spock’s turning into him, Spock’s _kissing_ him, properly and full on. He opens his mouth, and Spock does too, and their tongues meet in the middle, pressing back and forth before bypassing one another. Jim’s breath is shorted right out of his head. He knows how to kiss. He should know how to breathe while he’s kissing. But... 

Spock’s lips try to leave, but Jim’s having none of it. He chases Spock, until Spock’s face turns to the side and Jim’s kissing his cheek, fumbling through the water to find him. Spock murmurs against him, “I am consenting.” Jim almost laughs. He’s not sure if he would mean it joyously or sadly. 

He keeps his wet forehead against Spock’s and asks, “What does that mean? I don’t...” He sighs once in frustration, while Spock’s thigh shifts over his, fingers still exploring his body. He touches Spock’s hip but won’t go further, not yet. He licks his lips. “I need to know what you want...”

“You,” Spock answers, kissing him again but pulling back to speak. “I apologize for my earlier tactic. I simply did not think you would desire me in return, and it was important to me that, in the event of rejection, you would not be uncomfortable with me.”

“Uncomfortable?” Jim does laugh, dryly. “What do you think would be more uncomfortable than lusting after someone with no self worth?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock says, “I have self worth. We are simply of different species.”

Jim shakes his head. “I don’t care.” He doesn’t. He kisses Spock again, meets no resistance, goes in for another, then another—Spock’s mouth tastes faintly like the bland Vulcan rations and some other moist, warm flavour, addictive and intimate. Spock’s leg slides over his, body moving closer and closer; soon they’ll be flattened together. Jim _wants_ that.

“You are human,” Spock gasps between kisses, and Jim’s too busy showering Spock’s handsome face in love to say it doesn’t matter. “I am not. I will always be beneath you...”

“While we’re on Earth,” Jim growls, because it’s the truth. His blood’s boiling hotter, angry at that one statement but mostly turned on by everything else. “We won’t stay here. I want to come with you. I mean that. And then the only way you’ll be beneath me is in bed...” Maybe it’s too fast, but Spock started it—Spock’s _touching him_ all over. He lets his hands slide around Spock’s body, the same way Spock’s feeling him. He wants to grab Spock’s ass. He’s felt it on the motorcycle enough. He knows it’s taut, soft, _tight._ He wants to feel it in his fingers, feel every centimeter of Spock’s perfect body. Instead, he grabs Spock’s hips, and he hauls Spock suddenly forward, jerking Spock higher out of the water, pulled into his lap. Spock clutches at Jim’s shoulders, knees digging into the sides of the rock ledge. He leans down for another kiss. A moment later, Jim manages to add, “If you want to, of course...”

“I want you,” Spock hisses. His demeanor’s changed along with Jim’s, and his body ruts forward; Jim can feel Spock’s smooth dick poking into his stomach. “I want you very much...”

Maybe this is why Vulcans aren’t allowed on Earth. Spock’s turned into a feisty little minx, irresistible. Even if Jim didn’t already desperately want to touch and lick every bit of Spock he can get his hands on, he’d be seduced in a heartbeat. He clutches at Spock’s trim waist and enjoys Spock rocking into him again and again, all the tension and stiffness from their ride seeping out in the soothing flow of the water and each other’s acceptance. It’s too good. It’s _so_ good. Jim’s hard, so hard, and he knows there’s nothing between them. He thinks Spock’s tongue is longer than his. It feels smoother. He traces it with his own, traces Spock’s teeth, digs his fingers into Spock’s flesh and rocks back into Spock’s movements, sure this is all he ever wanted. He mumbles between the on slaughter of kisses, as best he can, “I didn’t... rescue you... for this...”

“I know,” Spock says. Spock nips at Jim’s ear, and Jim’s hands jump out of the water, grabbing Spock’s face and holding it still; he turns it to the side and runs his tongue along the shell of Spock’s ear, up the elegantly pointed tip—that one proof of deviation. He wants to lick it and suck it and see if it turns green. Spock bites at his neck and groans, “ _Jim_...”

Their chests are pressed tightly together, half underwater, slick and slipping and Jim’s cock is nestled against Spock’s body—the blood’s pounding in his ears and he’s dizzy with lust and the pleasure of having it returned—he grabs Spock’s full ass and squeezes, runs his fingers down Spock’s crack and—

A siren pierces the distance. In an instant, they’re both frozen. The sound is rapidly approaching: the blare of a hovercruiser, foolishly advertising its location. Before Jim can react, Spock’s protectively flattened into him, slamming him against the stone and pinning him there, slipping them lower into the water. They’re enveloped in shadows, but they’re hardly invisible. Jim’s pulse is already racing, but his breath catches in his throat as the whirring alarm reaches its height: so close it might as well be on top of them. 

A moment later, it’s passing, and Jim’s slumping in relief. Spock stays tense, stays alert. Nothing’s changed between the two of them, but... as the noise flickers quieter and quieter until it’s gone, they’re just waiting. Worried. All the anxiety of the first day rushes back to Jim: the simple reality that one little hovercruiser could ruin everything. He leans his head on Spock’s shoulder, exhaling and trying to re-center. Worst timing. 

Or, perhaps, very lucky timing, considering they’re hidden and off the road. If they were driving, they probably would’ve been caught. Spock leans back against him and eventually says what he doesn’t want to hear: “We should get moving.”

Jim nods, knowing Spock can feel it. “Rain check on this.”

“It does not appear to be about to rain, nor has the previous light weather indicated that this area is prone to sudden showers.”

Jim just snorts, detangling himself. Spock climbs off and aside, and Jim hisses at the loss of contact, wants to pull him back, but knows better. He clarifies, “I mean we should continue this when we can.”

Spock says simply, “I agree.” And he waits for Jim to leave first.

Jim leads the way out of the pool, cautiously looking around as he nears the shore and scrambles over the rocks. Their clothes are still damp, but it can’t be helped. He shoves into them and stumbles too much, mostly because he keeps glancing aside at Spock. Too wet for this, he grabs the front of the bike. 

They get it back up to the path again, the rocks and trees too dense here to drive anywhere else. Spock checks the tricorder, still sending out a jamming signal, and finds it functioning ‘adequately.’ Jim climbs on and waits for Spock to get on behind him, holding tight against his back, the rations stuck between them. They should probably talk, but there isn’t time, and it’s too difficult while driving. When the bike starts up and Spock leans into him, Jim would like to think that they have a connection that goes above and beyond what words would say. Or at least, they’re growing one.

Jim takes them off down the jagged path. Even with the wind beating away the lingering water, Spock’s body pressed to him keeps him warm.


	11. ~

They find no caves suitable to hide in, but the forest has grown so dense, the trees so tall, that moving on is somewhere between foolish and impossible. They stop and carry the bike as far as they can, over roots and logs and around rocks and bushes, until Jim’s arms are too weak to go on. Spock doesn’t protest when he stops. The trees above them are so full that it’s unlikely they’ll be caught. Still, they nestle the bike up against a bush and brush leaves over it where they can. 

They curl up behind a log, cushioned in grass and moss and the general mash of forest floor. They sit beside each other, eat and drink a bit, tuck away the supplies, and lie on their sides, facing one another. They’ve spent so long together without words that there’s no sense of awkwardness, nothing strange. Jim’s not ashamed of looking anymore, but he still mumbles, “Do you still like me?”

Eyebrows knitting together in that adorable way of his, Spock asks, sounding genuinely perplexed, “Why, in the span of so little time and no unusual events, would my opinion of you change?”

It’s Jim’s turn to lift an eyebrow. Grinning with the hint of laughter, he asks, “You consider this usual, then? Driving a motorcycle through the woods on shuttle rations for days on end?”

“Usual for our circumstance,” Spock corrects. Then in the pause where Jim reaches to clasp Spock’s hand for no particular reason, maybe just the warmth, he continues, “Your own thoughts have not changed your mind? Despite the inevitable trouble it will cause you?”

“Trouble,” Jim snorts. “Oh no. I wouldn’t want that. I’ve done such a good job playing by the rules up ‘til now.” Spock doesn’t look particularly amused, but he doesn’t have to. It’s Jim’s decision. 

Jim thinks of how they were in the water, naked and touching _everywhere_ , and how they are all day, clinging to one another, just trying to hold on. The small gap between them seems enormous, unacceptable. Jim shuffles forward. When Spock doesn’t stop him, he moves the rest of the way, crushing a weed in the middle. The nights are cold, but Spock’s body counters that. Spock shifts one leg over Jim’s. 

Jim leans in to kiss him, still, somehow, not completely sure Spock will press back. Maybe it’s all too easy to be true. With them, anyway. The night air around them is thick and quiet, only the occasional bug or bird making any sound of life. It’s magical, or maybe roughing it’s gotten to Jim’s head. He never expected it to turn out like this. 

Spock presses back into him: a firm, chaste kiss. When they part, it’s less than a centimeter, so close that Jim can feel the ghost of Spock’s breath, tasteless from the odd rations. “There is a large probability that we will not find them,” he says, so quietly that it’s almost a whisper. He doesn’t have to say who ‘them’ is.

“I know.” Jim frowns; he does. This could all be in vain. But they need _something_ to head towards.

“You would still be able to return to a small society, perhaps blend in under a new name...”

“Hush.” Jim’s surprised when it works; Spock’s mouth falls closed. Jim lifts his hand to Spock’s face, cups Spock’s cheek, caresses it softly and insists, quiet but powerful, “I don’t want to hear that. We might not have had the chance to talk and learn about each other properly, but for better or worse, we’re in this together. We’re partners now. ...And I find that I like that. I liked it when we started, and I like it more and more as this goes on. I... I really hope we find your family. But if we don’t... well... we’ll figure something out. _Together._ ”

“That will not be easy with me,” Spock insists, though his voice is still low. 

“We’ll get you a whole bunch of hats. No one will ever know.” He’s smiling, half sad.

“And my eyebrows?”

“We’ll shave them off and pencil in a different shape.” Though it would be a shame; Spock’s perfect the way he is.

“My skin...”

“Human skin comes in all colours and shades. It’ll be fine. Just don’t cut yourself and you’ll be fine. We won’t stay here forever anyway. One way or another, we’ll find a ship, and we’ll get off this rock.” He means it. It’s convincing Spock that’s the challenge, but he stares straight at Spock and brushes his fingers over Spock’s cheekbone, threads his fingers through the short tufts of Spock’s hair. Finally, Spock nods. 

So Jim pulls him closer and kisses him again, properly. Jim’s mouth opens, eyes sliding shut, and he can feel Spock opening up to him in return. His tongue slips in, finds Spock, presses, and Jim’s _needed_ this. He grabs onto Spock’s hair and holds Spock in as close as he can. 

Their bodies flatten together. Jim couldn’t even say for certain who’s driving it the most; they’re doing it at once, trying to climb over each other and rock into one another until they’re a sweating mess of swaying movement. Spock’s hands are on his sides, slipping around to his back, pulling him in while he claws at the back of Spock’s shirt. Now that he’s had Spock naked, the clothes feel foreign and wrong. He pulls at them, and he pulls away, panting between the fierce kisses that linger, “Spock... Spock, want you...”

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock answers, and it _is_ an answer. Spock’s fingers smooth over his shirt, bypassing too-tight buttons and running down to the hem of Jim’s pants while their mouths are still preoccupied. Spock’s palm comes to rest over the growing bulge in Jim’s pants, and Jim moans loudly and bucks into it. He didn’t expect Spock to do that. Be so forward, so blatant. Maybe this is what happens when Vulcans bottle their emotions for too long. He runs his own hands down to Spock’s ass, isn’t stopped, and squeezes, earning a deep growl from Spock’s mouth to his. 

Spock rolls them over so suddenly that there’s no room for protest; a second later, Jim’s on his back with a root digging in between his shoulder blades and Spock’s body draped over him. Spock’s legs are to either side of his, one elbow supporting Spock’s weight and the other massaging Jim’s sealed cock. Spock murmurs, “Jim... I would... I would like to ride you...” Jim cuts him off with a needy moan: oh, _yes_.

They’re going so fast, but Jim can’t help it; he’s never had anyone so burning hot in his grasp. But they’re in a forest for their first time, and Spock deserves more than that, deserves something special that Jim’s too dazed and horny and poor to give. But Spock _asked_. He wants it. Jim wants it. So badly. He kneads the taut cheeks of Spock’s ass and tries to resist but fails so miserably. “Are you sure...?”

“Vulcans do not take this lightly.” Jim didn’t think they did. That’s what’s so shocking. Spock’s teeth catch on Jim’s lower lip and drag it out as he lifts up, forehead to forehead; they’re both panting and grinding into one another, but there should be some semblance of speech first, even if they’ve gotten this far without it. “I am quite sure. I think I have known for some time that I have wanted you...”

“Me or my cock?” It comes out with a laugh—typical Jim being an idiot and throwing humour in where he’s unsure. He realizes too late that humour isn’t the easiest language for Spock, so he adds, “I do want you, too.”

“I want what I can have of you.” Which, Jim supposes, means _everything_. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t want any less, himself. 

He kisses Spock again. Long, hard, then again, and Spock’s fingers rest on his fly, ready and waiting. Jim makes a vague nodding motion, swallowed by the natural movement of kissing and touching, but Spock seems to understand; the zipper descends. “Spock...” Another kiss, another, so hard to stop... he gasps, trying to be coherent but finding it so difficult, “You should... you should top, so I don’t feel like an asshole...”

“There is no difference.”

“I feel like there is; you’ve been so powerless...”

“This is not about that.”

Jim knows. Even attributing power to the positions is an antiquated notion, but he lives in an antiquated world. Still. He tells himself that he’s only taking what Spock wants to give. Spock’s pulling Jim’s cock out of his pants and boxers, free in the cold night air but pulsing hot and hard in Spock’s careful hand. Spock leans closer, his head disappearing beside Jim’s, body lowering while his other arm retracts; Jim shifts to watch it slip into Spock’s pants. He groans, humping Spock’s hand uselessly and muttering, “Shit, lube...”

He can feel Spock’s head shaking, or maybe it’s just Spock’s body trembling. Spock’s breath comes shaky. “I... my anatomy should... should prepare itself...”

Maybe Jim should be freaked out, but instead, the thought of Spock’s ass naturally wetting for him makes him insanely hard. His hips jerk upwards, and Spock strokes him sweetly, pins him down and grinds back into him—around Spock’s hand, Jim can feel the tent in Spock’s pants. He’s never seen a Vulcan cock before. He desperately wants to. The new thought makes him wild; he slips his hands under Spock and rubs the imprint of a large cock. He squeezes and shifts to map it out—it feels very, very long... is it tipped green, he wonders, flushed with blood? What does Vulcan cum taste like?

Spock pushes off, and Jim keens, reaches out, doesn’t want him to leave, but he doesn’t go far. He straddles Jim’s hips and lifts up on his knees, then works on his own pants, and Jim flies to help. They scrunch the scratched fabric down his thighs, until his cock bobs straight out, slightly curved and arched up, pulsing faintly and beautiful. It’s mostly yellow, pink, but there are signs of green veins and a flushed, darker patch at the veiled head. Jim reaches for it instantly, wrapping his dry hand around the shaft and squeezing—it’s soft, warm, and practically vibrating in his hand. Spock makes an erotic noise somewhere between a gasp and moan. Jim’s _so_ lucky. 

Hovering over Jim’s cock, Spock reaches back to line himself up, and Jim almost wishes he’d turn around so Jim could get a proper look at his ass. But then, Jim doesn’t want to give up the view he’s already got. Spock’s lashes are heavy, cheeks and the tips of his ears stained, gorgeous even through the relative darkness. They both know it’d be foolish to strip more than they have to, just in case, but Jim _wants_ Spock utterly naked. Some day. There will be a day. They’ll do this again, and again, and again—he’s sure of it. 

Spock begins to lower down. The second Jim’s cock nudges at a slick ring of muscles, he’s in heaven. Spock pauses for barely a second, sucking in breath, then pushes down faster, until the tip of Jim’s cock pops inside and he’s groaning in delight. Spock’s ass is searing hot and wildly tight, and Spock keeps going, pushing himself down, swallowing more and more while Jim clings to his hips and cock and desperately tries to not buck up. Spock doesn’t piston on and off, doesn’t go slow. His face scrunches up, eyes closing, and he goes onwards. Jim’s not sure where to stare; his own cock disappearing into Spock’s perfect ass, or the beautiful look on Spock’s face. It seems to go on for a wondrous eternity, and then it’s over far too fast. 

Spock’s sitting on him, fully impaled. Spock stays there, catching his breath, while Jim _stares_ , down from his human-like navel to the smattering of black hair above his cock, to the awe-inspiring shaft itself, to the dark, heavy balls below nestled up against Jim’s stomach. Jim stokes up to Spock’s hips and pets them fondly, then runs one palm up Spock’s body, wrinkling his shirt and reaching, forcing him to bend closer so Jim can cradle the back of his neck. 

Jim acts on pure instinct and uses that grip to protect Spock when his libido kicks in. He rolls them over just as sharply as Spock did, tossing them around to pin Spock to the ground, legs in the air around him. Spock’s arms fly to his shoulders, while Jim kisses him and murmurs quickly, “Ready?” Because he’s going mad with the need to _move_. He might come just from the pressure and heat alone; Spock’s ass is _heaven_. 

Spock weakly murmurs, “Yes,” and presses his mouth to Jim’s. 

Jim doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides out halfway and snaps back in, slamming right into Spock’s tight channel and hissing happily at the wondrous feeling; Spock’s walls envelop him and swallow him right up. He does it again, and he kisses Spock hard to swallow both their screams, then does it again impossibly harder. He slams into Spock with the force of a lion, desire driving him insane. He’s never wanted anyone so much in his life. He kisses Spock so fiercely, only stopping once to spit on his hand. It’s a pitiful lube, but it’s all he has, and he uses it to grab a hold of Spock’s dick and pump it while he grinds Spock into the forest floor. He fucks Spock hard and jerks Spock off in time with them, lost in a heady perfection.

If Jim could, he’d do this all night long. He doesn’t ever want to be doing anything else. His cock _belongs_ sheathed in Spock’s perfect body; he’s sure of it, now that he’s felt it. Spock’s long fingers stroke over his back and up his spine, weave through his hair and maneuver him for each new angle Spock wants to kiss at. Jim still cradles Spock’s head like a pillow, his other hand furiously working up and down Spock’s smooth shaft, thumb stopping now and then to swirl around the slit at the tip. At some point, he needs to do this properly, with both his fingers and his tongue. He wants to explore every little bit of Spock’s body, learn all the differences off by heart. Right now, he doesn’t stand a chance. It’s all he can do to stay conscious. He’s half man, half animal, claiming a mate that he _knows_ should be _his_.

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock hums between kisses, and it’s poison—takes Jim so much closer to that proverbial edge. Spock saying his name is everything. “Jim...”

Somehow, spectacularly, though Jim’s having the best fucking time of his life, Spock breaks first. He clings to Jim hard and he screams, tensing and bursting in Jim’s hand, painting his fingers and their shirts. Jim doesn’t have the wherewithal to care, just keeps pumping, while Spock’s ass spasms blissfully around his still-going cock. He can’t take it. Spock’s walls contract and squeeze and drag him over the edge, milking out the best orgasm of his life. He screams so loud he’s sure he’ll burst both their ear drums and bring down all the troops. He arches into Spock and shoves his last few thrusts in, exploding in Spock’s body. He clutches at Spock for dear life, hissing, “Spock,” in one perfect, pointed ear. 

For a few seconds, that’s all his world is. _Spock._ He’s not even aware he’s collapsing until it’s already happened and he’s boneless, coming down and rolling in ecstasy.

Eventually, he pulls out of Spock’s body. He can feel Spock panting as hard as he is, and he lazily grabs a fistful of weeds, jerking them out of the earth to try and scrub them off. He does a shit job, but they smell and look a mess anyway. He slips half off Spock’s body but stays draped half over it, and Spock turns to nuzzle into him. They’re heavy and satiated and kiss again: reassurance that everything is good and lovely. Too tired for words, they lie there and touch.

At some point, they fall asleep like that, sticky and tangled together. Jim doesn’t have any dreams, but then, he doesn’t need any.


	12. ~

The forest dies off near the edge of a cliff, or at least, a large split in the rock that carries down into general darkness. Somewhere along the line, they’ve lost the river. If it carries on, there must be a way, but the sounds of it are so far off that Jim has no idea if it just swerves elsewhere or really finds some hurdle over the little canyon. 

If it were just himself, Jim would probably try to jump it. He might not make it, but he’s a risk taker. With Spock, that’s not an option. Spock’s currently steering, and Jim, sitting behind and holding onto Spock’s waist, neglects to mention his idea. Instead, he mumbles into Spock’s ear, “We have to go over it, don’t we?” Because Spock’s stopped and turned off the bike, probably preserving fuel while they deal with this problem. 

Spock looks back at him and answers, “We are very close to the signal. But I believe it does belong to the other side.”

“Lovely.”

Either Spock’s got more important things to deal with, or he’s grown used to Jim’s sarcasm, because he doesn’t look around again. Jim nudges his sides and slips off the bike, sighing, “Let’s switch.” It feels like it’s nearing his turn anyway. 

He climbs back onto the front, and Spock settles behind him, and Jim has some water while he stares at the issue before him. The other side is rockier than where they are, dipping off out of sight. If they were steadily climbing a mountain, he didn’t realize it, but that’s sort of what it looks like. It’d help if he had any concept of _where_ they are, but he doesn’t. The trees obscure the view to either side, but one seems more downhill than the other. That’ll have to do, so Jim asks, “Any opposition to going right?”

“As no logical solution has presented itself, I will defer to your judgment.” That might be Vulcan for instinct. 

The path Jim takes isn’t really a path at all, more just a winding stroll around the trees, and he drives slower than he’d like, just in case. The ground is hard but easier than it was in the thick of the forest. They’re going the opposite way from the river, which, when he thinks about it, is probably a stupid idea, but Spock doesn’t correct him. Whatever directional signal Spock managed from the Vulcan craft and kept up with on their little makeshift tricorder, ways to navigate the topography clearly wasn’t included. But eventually, they’re going noticeably downwards, and then they’re winding through rocky ledges that Jim thinks might be taking them closer. After what feels like maybe an hour, Spock nuzzles into his face, nudging left, and Jim takes that as a sign to swerve. He heads in the direction Spock wordlessly guides him. There aren’t any trees here, and there’s very little greenery. It feels like they’re weaving through the cutouts in a mountain. There won’t be anywhere to hide if they’re caught here, but then, it seems far less likely they will be caught.

And then they get to an area riddled with caves, and Spock’s arms tighten around his stomach—Jim assumes they’re bidding him to stop. He pulls over next to a wall, the shadows of midday too small to cover them, and Spock leans back and removes the tricorder still emanating a jamming signal. 

“They should be somewhere in this vicinity.”

Jim nods, feeling solemn and inexplicably nervous. He’s never met a host of aliens before, and while he assumes they can’t be what Starfleet says, that doesn’t mean they’ll take well to him. It’s a fear he probably should’ve had from the beginning, but it never quite seemed as _real_ as it does now. He contents himself by picturing them like a dozen or so other Spocks, which would be either quite pleasant or maddening. He’s sure Spock would tell him if he were in danger, at least.

Spock replaces the tricorder and flattens along Jim’s back again, suggesting, “It may be best to proceed slowly so as not to miss anything.”

“Yeah.” Jim swallows. Before he kicks the bike off, he half jokes, “Do you think your parents will like me?”

Spock pauses. “I am sure they will appreciate what you have done for me. However, my father is purely Vulcan, and he may not express affection in the way that you are accustomed to.”

Sighing, Jim admits, “I guess none of my girlfriends’ parents ever liked me either.” Though that might’ve been because he doesn’t usually date as long as he suspects he’d like to keep Spock, and he’s prone to trouble like breaking out of a military base with a prisoner. 

After a moment, Spock says, “I believe my mother will ‘like’ you.” Jim smiles, even though Spock’s clearly just trying to make him feel better. But then, he doesn’t think Spock would lie to him, however small. 

He sets to driving again, slowly, and they peer in and out of the caves as they go, all the entrances too swamped in shadow to reveal anything. The sounds of the bike are sure to give anyone warnings, but there’s nothing else for it. If they go too far and wind up doubling back, they’ll still be better off than they were yesterday. 

“Stop,” Spock says loudly in his ear, perhaps half an hour later. They’re going too slow for wind to ruin the words, so Jim hears it and pulls over, looking back on instinct. Spock nods to one of the entrances and adds, “I believe I witnessed an unnatural source of light.”

Squinting, Jim says, “I can’t see anything.”

“It was fleeting. A human would consider it a trick of the light.”

“But a Vulcan?” Jim asks with a grin.

“Vulcans do not believe in tricks.”

“Of course.”

Because neither of them have a weapon and they could really find anything in the darkness, Jim takes them over on the bike, backing into the shadows slowly so that, should a mountain lion or anything else pounce, they can bolt off. They don’t have endless fuel, so keeping the bike running too long would be foolish, but they have to take some precautions. When Jim’s found a good spot and comes to a stop, Spock says, “We should stay here. If it is my crew, they will come to us.”

“And if it’s a wild animal, they’ll also come to us,” Jim notes. But he knows that a wild animal wouldn’t produce a ‘trick of the light,’ and he trusts Spock’s... _instincts._

For a few moments, they just wait, Jim alternatively excited and tense. All the days of travel have left him haggard, but that could all change now, for better or worse, and his emotions broil tumultuously in his stomach. A part of him is peripherally aware that he’ll have to share Spock again—that it won’t be just the two of them in the universe. He’s always been social, and in some ways, it’ll be good, but in others...

He reaches back and puts his hand on Spock’s thigh. Spock’s hand falls over top of it—a silent, reassuring gesture.

More minutes, and nothing happens. Jim mumbles, “Maybe you should call to them.” As undignified as it is. Spock doesn’t seem the shouting type. 

Spock hesitates. “What would I say?”

“Hello?” It would obviously be better if Spock did it; they could recognize his voice.

“There is a possibility we will come across a small human faction, perhaps a group of Starfleet officers performing some form of experiment or mining operation.”

Jim snorts. “With how low on people they were back at the base?” It just doesn’t seem likely. But he looks over his shoulder and glances down anyway; the hat only has a few rations left in it; Spock could still put it on.

Spock must realize the most logical explanation is his own people. A minute later, he calls, voice raised, “Is there anyone within this cave?” His arms move back around Jim’s waist, maybe so they’re ready to run, maybe for support. It’s good. 

They tense when the darkness shifts, and suddenly, they’re blinded. A burst of white light flashes and swamps the cave, and Jim throws an arm up to shield his eyes, blinking through the odd, unnatural illumination that stretches in the distance, cascading over the sloping walls. It’s deep, reaching far back, but it swerves, clearly twisting around an opening. One man stands at the end, holding a little metal device that could be a tricorder but seems too bright; it lights everything like a torch. 

It takes Jim a bit to grow used to the light, and his arm lowers for that, hand slipping to shield his eyes more delicately. The man, he thinks, is Vulcan. He looks similar to Spock, but maybe harder, more angular, dressed in a grey robe. His black hair’s washed lighter in the glow, and he calls in a sturdy voice, “Spock. It is good that you live.”

“You as well, Stonn,” Spock calls over Jim’s shoulder, his grip noticeably looser. Something in Jim unfurls, relaxes; Spock knows this man. He expects them to say more, ask after the others, but maybe there’s no need. Without another word, Stonn turns back to the curve in the walls, disappearing into the fold, his light trailing after him. 

Jim asks quietly, “Should we follow him?”

Spock’s already heading off. Breath held, Jim follows suit. They take the bike deeper, just in case, and Spock takes their little tricorder, turning it on just for the subtle illumination—it casts a pale blue glow around the edges of Spock’s face. His hand reaches sideways and trails down Jim’s arm, finding Jim’s fingers again—they intertwine. Something passes between them with it: their wordless connection intensified with the contact. Together, they walk forward. 

By the time they near the groove Stonn disappeared into, Jim can hear movement on the other side. It’s cold in the cave, away from the sun, and the tricorder only keeps the ground a meter away from them truly visible. When they reach the turn, they don’t need to go around it. 

Two people emerge, a torch like Stonn’s lighting them up like two angels, an older Vulcan man, and, Jim realizes with a start, a human woman. Her brown hair is cut short but frayed around the ends, and up close, he can see that both of their clothes are worse for wear. Jim and Spock stop in their tracks, the tricorder flicking off, and Jim squeezes Spock’s hand subtly, noticing the way it’s tense in his. Jim looks at the two of them, the man’s cold neutrality and the woman’s kind face, and she bursts before anyone else can speak. 

“Spock.”

She flies at him, arms open, and Spock’s hand is snatched away from Jim’s grip—he’s swallowed up in a mammoth hug. “I’m so glad,” the woman whispers, close to his pointed ear, her face scrunched up as though she might cry. “I was so worried about you.” Slowly, Spock’s arms come up to encircle her, and Jim just stands there awkwardly, his chest feeling strange and his mouth with nothing to say. He’s happy for Spock. 

Spock returns, “I am alright and pleased to find you well, Mother.” It confirms Jim’s suspicion. The woman releases a short laugh that’s ruined by the prickle of tears, and she pulls back to kiss his forehead, to clasp his hands. Spock looks past her to add, “And you, Father.” Spock’s father nods tightly. He doesn’t show the emotion of Spock’s mother, but his face looks relieved, in its own way. Or at least, Jim thinks it does, from spending so much time with Spock’s subtleties. In small, little ways, Jim can see bits of resemblance, beyond the similarly cut hair and the pointed ears and the dark eyes. Spock’s mother hugs him again before she lets go. 

When she’s taken a step back, she looks at Jim, then back at Spock. Jim knows he’s dressed like the enemy, even if he’s covered in dirt and unshaven and alone on one little, back-dated motorcycle. Spock says for him, “This is Jim Kirk. He... _rescued_ me.” Jim lifts a hand stupidly, not knowing what else to do. 

The man’s eyes sweep over Jim, though he doesn’t say anything. It’s Spock’s mother that holds her hand back, and Jim takes it, clasping her delicate fingers in his. The smile she gives him is more than he can return—her eyes are still wet. “Thank you.” He nods, and she takes a breath, clearly trying to compose herself, though he can’t blame her—she must’ve thought Spock dead or worse. “I am Amanda, and this is my husband, Sarek. We’re eternally grateful to you for returning Spock to us.”

Sheepishly, Jim admits, “We did that together. He got your message from your ship.”

“I could have done nothing without Jim,” Spock says. “I was captured by Starfleet. When Jim was recruited, he took care of me. He aided my escape and has journeyed with me.” 

Sarek speaks for the first time, his voice deep and steady, but it comes out in words Jim doesn’t understand. It takes him a second to realize that it must be Vulcan, and it’s directed at Spock. When he finishes, Spock waits in silence, then looks at Jim before answering, again in a way that goes over Jim’s head. He looks at Spock’s face, like it’ll help him decipher, but he doesn’t recognize anything that goes past Spock’s lips. Spock looks at him again after, and Jim thinks he’ll be told later, when they’re alone. 

They have to be alone again at some point. Jim wants to say that he wants to stay, that he wasn’t just delivering Spock here. He communicates that with a look, and Spock says for him, “If possible, Jim wishes to return with us.” Sarek’s expression doesn’t change, but Amanda smiles. 

“You were not followed?” Sarek asks suddenly, and this time, it takes Jim an extra second to realize it’s not Vulcan, then another to realize Jim’s being addressed himself.

“I don’t think so.”

“Many of your conclusions seem accurate, Father,” Spock interjects. “Starfleet’s resources do not appear to be as they once were.” Which is an understatement. When Jim looks back at Sarek, he half expects to hear, ‘about time,’ but Sarek merely turns back towards the bend they came around. 

“There have been patrols in the past. It is safer beyond here.” And he begins to walk, Amanda falling into line with him. Spock moves after the light, and Jim wants to take his hand again, but doesn’t. 

It’s a small little passage, but it’s a short one, and it opens up into a wider cave lit by three torches placed strategically around. A dozen Vulcans are scattered about, some holding rations, others small devices, a few more bent over a large machine in the corner that must’ve been dragged from the craft after the accident. Jim blinks around at them, caught off guard—it’s a pathetic little camp, really, clearly with only base supplies, but it’s still more alien life than he’s ever encountered. One woman has a different sort of forehead than the others, and a creature in the far corner is only half the size of the rest of them, seemingly made of rock. When that creature turns around, what must be beady little eyes darting towards him, Jim nearly yelps in shock. But Spock follows Sarek and Amanda right down to the center, where a crude firepit’s been made. 

“Spock has returned,” Sarek announces levelly, while all hands still and all eyes turn to him. “We have also obtained a new crew member and have been informed that our information regarding Starfleet’s general decline appears to be accurate. Our plans will be moving forward.”

“Aside from the part about looking for Spock,” Amanda adds, and Sarek looks sideways at her, as though that part need not have been spoken—it was only logical. Amanda merely smiles at him, clearly too happy to abide by that rule. 

What plan they have, Jim has no idea, but Sarek sweeps them aside towards a larger machine, while the Vulcans around them return to work like nothing unusual’s happened. The rock creature walks over to them, while Amanda lays a hand on Sarek’s arm. She looks at Jim and Spock and asks, “You must be tired. Please forgive my husband’s sense of efficiency. We can tell you of our plans later. Have you been able to eat? Sleep?”

“Not as much as we’d like,” Jim admits before realizing he should’ve let Spock speak—this should all be about Spock. But now he’s already done it, and he glances at Spock before deciding for them, “I think we’d like to know what this plan is.”

Amanda nods. “Of course. Naturally, we know we can’t stay in here forever. Even if our crew were willing to hunt and eat animals to survive, we simply don’t have the necessary power to keep our machines working for more than another week. We must find a way to return to Vulcan.” Jim nods; he assumed as much. “Our vessel, unfortunately, is too damaged to fly. It’s a particular shame, because it’s small enough and well equipped enough to evade Starfleet’s somewhat faulty grip on the stars.”

“That is an inaccurate description,” Sarek says. “Their control does not extend past a fraction of the stars visible from Earth. Even on impulse engines, it would be possible to clear Starfleet’s grip within a small number of days, depending on the make of the vessel in question.”

“But we need a shuttlecraft for that, obviously,” Amanda jumps back in. “We salvaged what we could from our ship. We believe we could scramble signals, hack a different system, do what we needed, but... we would still need the base of a vessel to work with.”

Jim lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t have to ask where they’re going to get it. The question’s obvious.

“So we’re going to steal one from Starfleet,” she says, and Jim’s jaw drops. She smiles knowingly at him, then at Spock’s, whose mouth is slightly open and his eyebrows are raised. “It’s only fair; they damaged ours beyond repair and took much of our equipment. Easier said than done, we know, but we’re working on the best form of individual cloaking devices and computer scrambling equipment, and it’s imperative that we find a way to sneak into their base—”

“You’re going to sneak into the Starfleet base?” Jim interrupts incredulously. “But we just came from there—they’re a mess, but they’ll still catch you—”

“We’re not going through the front gates,” Amanda volleys. Then she gestures over at the rock creature, now standing waist-high beside her. “Keenser has been working on adapting a personal transporter device. We will transport as close as we can to the base whilst avoiding detection, then attempt to ascertain the least guarded area inside and go from there. Obviously, we know it’s a dangerous mission, and we know it’s far from perfect. But given our incredibly low amount of resources, intelligence from the inside, and time left, we don’t have much choice.” Beaming, she adds, as though she can’t help herself, “Having Spock back is more of a help than you’ll ever know.”

Jim nods numbly. It all sounds rather insane to him, but then, so does being in a cave full of Vulcans. ...And whatever Keesner is. A Roylan, Spock said? This morning, he’d still only ever seen one Vulcan and was picturing Amanda like... well, like sort of a female version of himself. And now...

“I believe we may be able to assist,” Spock says, and Jim’s head snaps sideways. “We now have some knowledge of the inside of the base.” And Jim _is_ good at getting away with reckless plans, apparently. And he does have a history of hacking. 

But for now, he just mumbles, “I am tired, though.” Because his mind’s sort of blown and he needs an adjustment period more than he’d thought. He probably should’ve taken that before hearing about their hair-brained ‘plan.’ He _is_ excited but... it’s all a big mix of things, mounting at all the newness around him. Strange and overwhelming. Amanda was probably right to suggest they rest first.

Amanda nods and says, “Of course,” and she takes them back behind the large machine—which Jim now assumes to be some sort of transporter—to where several mats are laid out on the floor. They look sort of like blow up mattresses, but much thinner. She brings over a series of supplies, pats Jim on the back and insists, “Rest.” She envelopes Spock in another tight hug and whispers to him, “Your father is ecstatic to see you too.” Spock lifts an eyebrow—Jim doubts Sarek’s ever shown ecstasy in his life.

Then they’re left relatively alone, blocked a little by the machine but still swamped in too-white light, with elegant, efficient creatures working all around them. Jim sits down on one of the mattresses all the same, and he finds it more comfortable than the forest floor was, probably on par with Starfleet’s bunks. Spock takes a moment to join him, and Jim asks quietly, “Do you want to walk around? Talk to everyone?” But Spock shakes his head. 

“I believe I need to... digest... this new information.”

Jim nods; he more than understands the feeling.

“Sleep with me?” And his cheeks turn a little pink while he says it, but he knows Spock won’t attach any human connotations. Spock wordlessly pulls up one of the other mats, and they lie down together, on their backs, but when Jim pushes his hand out, Spock’s presses into it. 

Jim closes his eyes. It’s still too bright, but being so overwhelmed makes him more tired than he already was, mostly sore from riding, and the softness of a makeshift-mattress is too tempting. And the thought of going back to Starfleet is ridiculously draining. He’s sure there’s more to it than they explained, that it’s full of logic and nuances and is thoroughly thought out by them, but it’s still a nerve-wracking concept. Maybe a short nap, and Jim will help as best he can. He got out once; surely he can get in.

Heavy, and tense, but somehow more relaxed than he’s been in days, Jim mumbles quietly, “What did your father say to you?”

Spock answers just as low, “He asked if you could be trusted.” Understandable. Jim nods at nothing. He expects to just drift off, but then Spock adds, in barely more than a whisper, “And if you were my mate.”

Eyes opening, Jim looks aside, but Spock hasn’t moved. His eyes are still closed. A tremor of shock runs through Jim, though, he supposes, they probably smell like sex, probably look a mess, and Vulcans probably don’t usually go about holding hands. It serves him right. Still, it’s... he doesn’t know what to think. Spock’s eyes finally open when Jim asks, “What did you say?”

Spock looks at him and answers, “I said yes.”


	13. ~

The plan is messy at best, insanely risky, but meticulously thought out the best it could be. Jim doesn’t know the exact coordinates of the barracks, but Spock extrapolates from his description. If they go in the dead of night while security’s the lowest, they just might be able to make it. 

It helps that most of the Vulcans are around Spock’s age or just a bit older, fit and strong, already stronger than humans, Jim’s told. They demonstrate to him a certain technique—the nerve pinch, they call it—that should stealthily render the security in their way listless, at least for long enough to get away. They don’t have any weapons, but they don’t plan on violence. They manage jamming signals that should mask their life signs when they arrive and blanket them while they creep towards the shuttle bay. Jim and Spock do their best to explain the layout, and everyone is briefed several times. The plan, Jim thinks _might_ work. 

He still isn’t quite prepared. When it comes to, he’s nervous as hell. None of the others show it, though Keenser fidgets. Jim stands next to Spock on the little platform Keenser sets up. They’ll go in pairs; they’re going first. They’ll have a five minute window to subdue Sulu and anyone else that might’ve replaced Jim. He knows what’s supposed to happen. He still looks at Spock sideways, and he can see the worry in Spock’s eyes. 

He reaches for Spock’s hand. They all know anyway. The rest of the crew is watching them, lined up and carting supplies, ready to go. Spock glances down at his hand, then reaches back to hold it. 

A sucked in breath, and Jim tells Keenser, “Ready.”

Reality dissolves. 

There’s a horrible second of sheer _nothingness_ , and then he’s back in flickering particles, eyes assaulted by the sudden darkness, the bright, white lights of the cave left behind. He and Spock find themselves standing, just as predicted, in the middle of the barracks, the lights off and only a little, natural bit through the window. 

A chiming giggle is abruptly cut off, and Jim’s head jerks around, just as Sulu scrambles to a sitting position in bed and starts, “What the hell?” Someone slips off him, sideways under the covers, and it takes Jim a second to recognize Chekov. Both he and Sulu look between Jim and Spock, Chekov scrambling to cover himself with the blanket and Sulu just staring dumbly. They’re both naked, or at least, from the waist up, where Jim can see. Not what he was expecting. 

As soon as Spock takes a step towards the bed, Sulu instantly shifts in front of Chekov, glaring protectively through the confusion still heavy on his face. Chekov looks dumbfounded. Jim grabs Spock’s arm before he gets too close; Spock looks around. 

“Just hold it.” Looking at Spock, Jim tries to explain as quickly as he can, “Sulu, listen to me. You know those Vulcans they found in the woods—”

“They’re invading?” Sulu grunts sarcastically. “Yeah, I got that. Now what the hell are you doing warping in here in the middle of the night? Not to mention with the prisoner you helped escape...” He isn’t shouting, but he’s hissing, cautious and on guard, more bristled than Jim wanted. Stupid though it might’ve been to expect, he half hoped for an accomplice. Jim takes a step closer, mostly just to be out of the way of the next team that might beam in. 

“We’ve come to get a ship. To get out of here—”

“You’re going to steal a ship?” Sulu asks incredulously, finally looking away from Spock to stare at Jim. “Are you insane? You came back for a suicide run!”

“Look, I know you don’t like Starfleet’s ideals any more than I do. These people deserve—”

“Jim,” Spock interrupts, “We do not have time.”

“He deserves to know—”

“I don’t want to know anything,” Sulu snaps, now looking testily at Spock while Chekov just sort of cowers curiously behind him. “This is insane! How’d you even bypass the security net?”

“We will not be able to convince him before the others come,” Spock says, looking straight at Jim.

“So? We have to get past him somehow.”

“What others?” Sulu asks. Suddenly the muscles on his chest are all too noticeable—Jim’s seen him fence—if he stands in their way, he’ll be a hard opponent. “Are you telling me I have to fight off an invasion?”

“He could trigger an alarm,” Spock suggests.

“You’re damn right I—”

“Spock, no!”

But Spock’s already walking swiftly around the bed. Sulu tries to reach for his nightstand—maybe he has a knife in it, a folded sort, Jim can’t know—Spock’s faster; he lunges for Sulu’s neck while Sulu’s fingers are still on the handle. A split second later, Sulu falls limply to the mattress, arm draped over the side. Chekov’s mouth falls open, eyes wide as saucers, and it looks like he’s about to scream, but Spock’s already on him, fingers pressed into the groove above of his shoulder. He falls backwards against the pillow, like he’s been sleeping soundly this whole time.

While Spock walks back towards the door, Jim sighs in aggravation. “That wasn’t necessary. We could’ve explained, maybe even got them on our side...”

“We would have run the risk of their triggering an alarm. If they did not, we would be putting them in jeopardy.” Which is true, but Jim still didn’t expect this. He’s not sure what he expected, but it worked out better in his head. He comes to the door with Spock and creaks it open, checking outside—there’s nothing. It’s hardly a high security area. 

The whining of the transporter sounds behind them; they turn to find Stonn and T’Pern ready as planned. The two Vulcans glance once at the limp figures of Sulu and Chekov, then approach the door. Jim nods to signify that everything’s alright, but even if it weren’t, the Vulcans start appearing in twos, Sarek in the next group and Amanda and Keenser last. They just barely all manage to fit, and Jim sucks in another breath—time to move. 

The compound’s mostly dark at night, but they creep through the shadows anyway, the grey robes making the Vulcans seem to disappear into the ether. They all move with a selective grace that Jim admires, but he doesn’t have that, and he and Spock stay in the lead: they’re the only ones with inside knowledge. They stick to the inner walls, under windows, moving fast but silent. They take the long route to avoid spots that might have guards, out and through the courtyard where everything started. 

The warehouse door is closed, but Keenser presses a little device into it, and a second later, it’s popping open, creaking too loud. Jim slips through it and doesn’t turn on the lights; he keeps Spock’s hand and trusts his instincts, bee lining around the silhouettes of boxes and shelves. They open the other door the same way, peering through a little crack. 

This is where Jim steps aside, Spock and Stonn going forward. Jim wants to hold Spock back, say he’s been through enough, but he knows the base best, and he has abilities that Jim just doesn’t. There’s no time to talk about it—they’ve done that enough anyway. Spent the last few nights doing nothing but. Jim knew this was coming. He stays in the shadows and watches through the crack as Spock and Stonn carefully circle around the guard on duty, dropping him too easily with the same move used on Sulu and Chekov. It’s all _too easy_.

But then, he thinks, the world owes these people a break. Their dealings with Starfleet have hardly been _easy_.

The line of them goes next, Keenser in the lead, opening the doors to the shuttle bay the same way. It’s all the same. There are two engineers inside. They give Stonn the one hat they have; he’s already wearing Spock’s uniform from the base—Spock himself would be recognizable. With the sort of calm surety that makes even Jim believe _they can do this_ , Stonn slips into the shuttle bay. Through the doors, Jim watches him subdue the engineers easily. One realizes what’s happening after he drops the other, but she’s ill-equipped to put up a fight, and Stonn handles her with very little trouble. He lays her down gently while the rest of them hurry through, three Vulcans already running scans. 

Following Sarek’s decisive steps, the group hordes behind the largest craft while the others utilize their tricorders, until Saavik announces first, “That one.” She walks briskly to the craft she’s chosen, and the others fall into line. 

This door is harder to crack, and the group sits in tense silence while Keenser and Suval attempt to hack their way into the system, Saavik, T’Pern, Devak, and Sarek himself busy on other tricorders. Jim whispers sideways to Spock, crouched behind the little shuttlecraft they evidently want, “What’re they doing?”

“Attempting to open the roof whilst making it appear that the roof is not opening at all,” Sarek announces instead, voice steady but naturally quiet. Jim nods to himself and desperately hopes it works, waiting. 

The craft they’ve chosen is a tiny little thing, down in the back, hardly one of the big credit operations. It looks like a transport vessel and probably couldn’t house more than a dozen comfortably, so they’ll have to squeeze. He doesn’t know why it was chosen—maybe it flies the fastest, maybe it’ll be the hardest to detect, maybe it has the best shielding. But he doesn’t want to interrupt to ask. 

“Hey!” Several of them turn to see a man in the far corner, dressed in an engineer’s uniform and looking completely shocked. Those on tricorders continue their work, while Jim stands in red-handed shock, Stonn and T’Pel immediately darting out of the crowd. They run so fast that they almost blur, and the man, stunned, turns to run. He’s headed straight for the security alarm, and for two terrible seconds, Jim thinks he’ll make it, but the Vulcans reach him just in time, pulling him back and silencing him—his final scream breaks off in its middle. Before they’re back, the shuttle door makes a jerking noise, and Suval sets to prying it open. _Needing_ to move, to help, Jim scales the little ramp and grabs on, manually pulling the hatch wide. 

One by one, the Vulcans filter inside, all heading to their posts like clockwork. Those with devices sit down and continue to operate them, Saavik and Suval head for the cockpit, and Jim finds himself climbing in second last, letting Stonn shut the door behind him with considerably more ease from the inside. The small, grey interior is just lines of seats and a few sparse terminals, now already manned by Vulcans. 

Keenser hops up into a seat that’s too high off the ground for him, and his legs kick in place while they dangle. Jim, still stunned that they made it this far, takes another seat. Spock sits beside him: a reassuring, familiar warmth through the haze of _almost there._

Numbly, Jim asks Amanda—another seated passenger—“Is there anything we can do?”

She tells him with a smile, “If there was, you’d already know. But I think you’ve done your part.”

So Jim just slumps back in the uncomfortable seat, reaching, now instinctively, for Spock’s hand. 

He listens to the lift off and watches out the little square windows, while his whole world shifts—everything behind and ahead surreal. 

Spock squeezes his hand. 

They head for the stars.


	14. Epilogue

Something warm and soft is ghosting over Jim’s skin, sliding from the back of his neck to his shoulder, up and over the length of his side. It reaches fabric at his hips—the blanket, Jim realizes sleepily—and slides its way back up again. 

Not quite wanting to stir just yet, Jim keeps his eyes stubbornly closed. But he rolls onto his back so the hand—he’s sure that’s what it is; he’d know those long fingers anywhere—can makes its way across his chest. It splays over one of his nipples, palming him gently while he hums and thinks of waking, or maybe he can just burst up like a shark, snatch Spock and drag him back down into the recesses of their bed. 

‘Their bed’ is just a little bunk, thin and not built for comfort, but for the past few days, its worked. Stonn and Saavik alternate the one on the other side of the room, but both are rarely there, and, though Jim isn’t looking yet to check, he thinks both are still on shift. That leaves their tiny cabin just to them, just to Jim’s tired self and Spock’s lazy touches.

Finally, Spock murmurs, “Jim,” and Jim dares to half-open one eye in the faux-twilight of their morning. The cabin lights are off, but the stars drift in through the porthole. It puts Spock’s side in a semi-glow, and his hand drifts up to Jim’s face, thumb lightly brushing his cheek. Jim sighs deeply: something akin to a yawn. 

Then he yawns properly and mumbles, “What is it?”

“We are within sight of Vulcan.” He turns back towards the window, and that’s enough for Jim. 

They expected to arrive today, though he knows it’ll probably take more time to either land themselves or find a stronger Vulcan vessel to help them. Even knowing, it’s still something that hits Jim suddenly and overwhelmingly. He’s still just getting used to the eerie, picturesque sight of true stars, still not completely done with the image of Earth fading into the distance. He pushes himself into a sitting position, the blanket dropping to his lap and his hand shielding his mouth for another yawn. He looks past Spock through the little round window, eyes widening at the whole new world below. 

Vulcan doesn’t look quite like Earth did, and it doesn’t look anything like any of the other planets in their solar system Jim grew up seeing in school. It’s big and beautiful, or at least, that’s how Jim sees it. It’s a dusty sort of red, only bluish in a few parts, shaded and toned with craters and canyons, littered with detail so much greater than his eyes can see. He loses his breath just looking at it: a new _world_.

Spock’s hand falls to Jim’s knee, and Jim can tell from the subtle squeeze that it’s meant to be reassuring. He doesn’t need the comfort. He’s sure he’s smiling, and he mutters half to himself, “You don’t know how excited I am.”

“It will be different,” Spock tells him. 

“I know.” It takes a couple seconds to wrench his gaze back to Spock. If he has his way, this won’t be the last time they look at a new planet together. “That’s what makes exploring fun.”

It’s unlikely they’re needed up front, and they don’t really have shifts, so Jim makes up his mind that they need to celebrate as much as they can before either Stonn or Saavik decide to come and enjoy a civilian view. Jim wraps his arms around Spock’s body and tugs him back down to the mattress, fiddling with the blanket to bring it over them, even though the Vulcans keep the ship warmer than Jim’s used to. He likes it hot. He nuzzles into Spock’s face and sighs, “We need to celebrate.” He moves to sit up again, so he can look down at his mate and ponder where to start. 

He doesn’t get the chance. Spock lunges at him suddenly, pulling him back down in a tight, thick embrace. Jim’s pinned to the mattress, taken by surprise. Except for his boxers, Spock’s bare, and Jim’s completely naked, all flush skin on skin. He holds Spock back and waits, and Spock whispers quietly against him, “I do not express enough how much you mean to me. When we are on Vulcan, I will be more proper, but you deserve to know that while my culture discourages emotional declarations, you are no less important to me.”

“I... I know.” Confused, Jim tugs lightly at Spock’s hair, pulling him loose enough that they can look at one another. Spock’s dark eyes are burning, and Jim holds them, breath caught in his throat. He reads Spock through the stoicism; he knows. But it makes the words no less wonderful to hear. 

“I wish for you to have me, Jim Kirk, and I wish to have you in return.” Jim wants to say he does; they do. But Jim bites his tongue and lets Spock finish—Spock should know. “This is not simply because you saved me. You showed compassion for me when I had already resigned myself to a slow and painful death. You fed me when I had not eaten, gave me water when my body was failing. You protected me from the brutality of others, and you risked your own life to bring me freedom. You have asked nothing in return. I am... grateful.”

Jim nods. He can’t do much more, because thinking about that still gets to him, makes him hot with anger at Spock’s pain and so _relieved_ that it’s over. He reaches up to gently comb through Spock’s bangs, something sweet and distracting for an excuse to touch. Spock continues, eyes locked with his. 

“You have said on more than one occasion that you find me ‘beautiful.’ My reservations and fears held me back, and I did us both a disservice by allowing that. You deserve to know that I consider you the most handsome being I have ever known.”

Jim makes a choking sort of noise—an almost laugh that almost becomes a sob because of his own emotions. He knows he’s grinning stupidly, aglow with the idea. He didn’t know if he fit Spock’s aesthetic—all the other Vulcans aboard have dark hair and dark eyes. None of them have stubble, like he’s just now gotten rid of. None of them have rounded ears. 

“But you are more than that. You are clever, and you are strong. You are brave. I have found that many humans are afraid of the unknown, but you are, as you put it, an ‘adventurer.’ I find you intriguing. I find that when we journeyed together, we fit well. I find conversing with you satisfying. I believe we have a natural report and understanding. I find your company... enjoyable.”

Jim can’t help it; he presses forward for a kiss, ruining his own litany of praise. It’s just chaste, light, and Spock’s lips are soft, but they stay closed. As Jim settles back, Spock finishes, “When we touch, I know that you are the one for me.” 

 

Jim just nods. He feels the same. The way he looks at Spock, he thinks Spock knows. He says anyway, “I love you too.”

Spock nods. 

“I mean it. You know how much. I think I wanted you when I first saw you. You’re smart and beautiful and you fit right by my side. ...I know that doesn’t sound as good as what you said, but...” Jim half-laughs again. “I just feel all of that too.” With an impish smirk, he adds, “Mate.”

Spock kisses him. Fully, this time, with a tongue that presses right past his lips, past his teeth, up against his own. Jim kisses right back, tilting for more leverage, while Spock explores his mouth, though by now, he probably knows it like the back of his hand. Jim could make a map of Spock’s body if he wanted to, but he’d still rather explore it from scratch every time. Spock presses Jim down into the pillow, and Jim’s eyes fall closed, his hands reaching up to feel what he’s not seeing. His fingers tangle in Spock’s hair and hold him in, just as unwilling to let go. 

Jim expects this string of constant kisses to last for a long, long time, or at least, he wants them to. When Spock tries to pull back, Jim goes with him, until a hand on his shoulder pushes him back down. Spock’s mouth kisses the side of his lips, his chin, and the underside of his jaw, leaves a slick trail down Jim’s neck and lingers at Jim’s collarbone. He has half a mind to make a joke about the bad human habits he’s passed on—from observing the others, he doubts Vulcans have a natural oral fixation. But Spock’s clearly picked up on what Jim likes. He kisses down Jim’s chest and departs to peck each of Jim’s nipples once, then tongues the left one until he can suck it into his mouth. Jim bites his lip to stifle his moan, arching up into Spock’s talented ministrations. 

He’s pushed back down immediately, and he whimpers when Spock lets go, slipping over to the other one. It gets the same treatment, is tongued and licked and sucked, then released to pebble, damp, in the open air. Spock kisses further down Jim’s chest, and Jim’s lips quirk into a heady smile—no, Spock’s not going to...

“You will need to forgive my inexperience in this department,” Spock mutters quietly, nuzzling the words into Jim’s stomach while his chin brushes through the trail of gold curls disappearing under the blanket. Spock’s fingers are pushing that blanket away, until Jim’s half-hard cock is springing up to rub at Spock’s neck—Spock tilts his head and lets it rest beneath his chin. The sight’s more than enough to make Jim grit his teeth and groan. “I have some knowledge of how humans please one another, and, if you are amenable...”

“Fuck, Spock, just do it.” Amenable? Jim almost laughs—he’d fucking _love it_. He thinks there might be a bit of a smirk in Spock’s eyes, and he sends it right back; the proof of exactly what Spock does to him is jutting along Spock’s jaw. It takes a considerable amount of willpower not to toss his hips off the bed and hump Spock’s throat. Spock licks his lips and swallows, and when his adam’s apple bobs, Jim can feel it moving against his shaft. He lifts up, holding back as much as he can manage. 

Spock takes a moment to move, perhaps because of that inexperience, but the way his lashes flutter half closed makes Jim irrationally think that he just likes Jim’s cock nestled against him. Then he presses a hard kiss into the yellow-brown tufts at Jim’s base. His fingers slide up Jim’s thigh and grip his cock, moving it aside. Jim’s breath catches while Spock shifts to peck it, then lick it, running a soft, wet tongue around the side. His hand shifts, open, and he licks the entire way up the length before kissing the tip, and he has the nerve to dart his eyes towards Jim’s face with an unsure look.

Jim mutters numbly, “You’re doing great,” and licks his lips. He’s up on his elbows now—he wants to throw his head back in ecstasy at the way Spock starts lapping at his tip, but he can’t look away from Spock’s bow lips. Spock’s clearly concentrating, working hard to please, and he wets Jim several times before he pops on, sucking the head into his mouth so suddenly that Jim nearly yelps. Spock pulls back off immediately, and Jim’s hand darts down to shove Spock back on while he moans, “No, no... yeah, just like that...” His hips canter up; Spock pins them down just in time. 

At first, Spock doesn’t seem quite sure what to do. He sucks at Jim’s tip experimentally, clearly noting the groan that wrenches through Jim’s body. He makes a humming sort of noise, and Jim’s teeth grit, hand petting Spock’s head fondly and trying not to shove Spock down. Spock goes through a few different techniques before he finally starts to move down Jim’s now rock-hard dick. 

Halfway, Spock pulls half off, adjusts, and pushes back down, jaw wide. His teeth scrape a little, and Jim hisses, “Teeth,” to tell him. Spock opens wider and keeps taking Jim deeper, enveloping him wet and hot, so, _so_ good. Spock keeps going, going, and then he’s at the bottom, taking Jim right to the root. His first try at it, and he’s got Jim fully impaled; Jim can feel the walls of Spock’s throat lightly trembling against him, still learning how to breathe and swallow. Maybe he was wrong about Vulcans and orals; they’re clearly built to take it. Jim swears under his breath and bucks against Spock’s hands, half grateful and half frustrated when they hold him down. When Spock tries to slide off, he only gets halfway before Jim slams him back down with a languid moan. Spock makes a choking noise, throat suddenly tightening, and Jim mutters, “Sorry, sorry,” but has trouble letting go. Spock pulls half off and readjusts, then pushes right back down like everything’s fine. Jim’s breathing is a mess. He shuts his eyes and leans back, digging into the pillow— _yes,_ it’s so good—he has to force himself not to come immediately. Then he looks again; even with the lack of elegance and the hesitation and the fumbling, the sight of Spock’s lips stretched around his cock makes the whole thing damn good. They’re a little swollen, pink, and moist from being open and unable to swallow the saliva that slicks along Jim’s dick when he bobs. He looks like he was made for this. 

He takes a bit more time, sliding on and off at his own pace, Jim trying with everything in him to not interfere. On his own, Spock gains momentum, gains speed, learns what he’s doing and starts to bob properly, up and down around Jim’s engorged cock. Then he actually _sucks_. His cheeks hollow out with the effort. The suction is _amazing_ , and Jim thinks he’s shamefully close already, can’t help it. Spock pulls off all the way, and Jim whines loudly at the loss. 

Spock quickly slips a finger into his mouth. Why, Jim couldn’t say, couldn’t care. Then another, then another, until he’s sucking on three fingers, and Jim’s just numbly staring and waiting for that to be his cock in Spock’s mouth again. He finally mumbles, half breathlessly, “Spock...”

And Spock pops the fingers out, returning, “I apologize.” He kisses the pink head of Jim’s cock like he’s sincerely sorry, then ducks to impale himself again. Jim’s moan is pulled out through a smile—he’s back in heaven. 

He’s so busy marveling in the sensations that he doesn’t notice Spock’s other hand until a blunt, wet fingertip is running between his cheeks. Jim looks down, eyebrows knit together, but Spock’s eyes are closed, and his finger’s still probing. It stops at his hole, tapping once, and Jim grunts; finally, Spock’s eyes flicker up. The finger swirls around his entrance, and Jim moans, “You wanna fuck me...”

The way Spock moves looks like a nod, but could really just be him gorging on Jim’s cock. His finger starts to press, applying pressure, clearly trying to get inside, and Jim grabs a chunk of Spock’s perfect bangs, holding him still by the forehead. Held captive, Spock’s finger stops. Jim shakes his head. “No... no, you can...” he has to stop around sucking in breath, nearly there and panting from it, “You can have me, just... slow down; you’re gonna make me come...”

As soon as Jim lets go, Spock relinquishes Jim’s cock. He lets it slip from his mouth, lips parted wide and tongue hanging out, like a puppy that’s dropped a bone at its master’s feet. He tries to lick the spittle from his lips and say, “I apologize.”

Jim half-laughs and insists, “Don’t _ever_ apologize for a great blow job.” Spock nods obediently, finger now insistently screwing into Jim’s hole. 

By the time it properly pops inside, Spock’s kissed his way back up Jim’s stomach. Jim grunts as he’s penetrated, but Spock’s careful, gentle, pistoning lightly and leaving a trail of wet licks and kisses for a distraction, leaving fluttering sensations all along his skin. Jim’s chest is lavished, his nipples sucked more, while Spock manages to sink himself in to the knuckle. It feels a little strange, like it always does, a tad uncomfortable, but nothing Jim can’t handle, and the mere thought of _Spock_ inside him spurs him on. A part of him knows he should stop and insist they find lube; unlike what Spock’s body’s been doing, Jim’s won’t adapt. But the rest of him doesn’t want to stop on the chance they can’t find anything; he’d rather take Spock slow and raw than not at all. 

Spock’s sucking on Jim’s neck when the second finger is tentatively added. Jim pulls Spock up to seal their lips together while the second finger makes its entrance; he needs something fiercer to keep his head away from that second digit; the spit’s not quite enough. The intrusion makes him grunt, but Spock swallows the sound and kisses him hard, keeps him busy and content and light-headed while he’s scissored gently apart. There’s a more raw, musky taste to Spock’s mouth, but that doesn’t stop Jim from trying to devour it whole. 

When Spock’s fingers pull out, Jim doesn’t want them to go. He lifts after them, keening, but Spock kisses him and whispers, “Shh.” It’s an all too human gesture that has Jim shivering. Spock presses down between them, settling in, the boxers he went to bed in still between them. Jim knows that while they’re sharing a room with others, he shouldn’t sleep naked, but with Spock beside him, he can’t help it. He doesn’t like things between them. He pushes at Spock’s underwear, and Spock helpfully shimmies out of them. 

Then it’s just _skin on skin_ , Spock’s hard cock pressing into his thigh. Jim bucks wildly into Spock’s body, but Spock pushes him down, holds his hips and kisses him, pulling back to line up. Something slick and spongy presses at his entrance. He grins against Spock’s mouth; he can feel the precum bubbling up already—apparently Vulcans prepare just as well for fucking as they do for getting fucked. Jim’s breath holds, even though he knows he should relax. His legs spread, lifting to wrap around Spock’s waist. He stops kissing long enough to look at Spock properly, and their eyes connect and linger. 

There’s just a second. A brief flicker of a moment where they just look at one another, where Jim hears everything from earlier in his head, sees Vulcan out the window, and knows that this is his new life: this man, right here. It’s over a second later—Spock surges down, thrusting up into him and kissing him down into the mattress. 

Jim’s scream is snatched away, and he does scream, even though Spock only goes in a dozen centimeters, pulls back a few and pushes in more, starts to slide in and out, deeper each time. Jim’s arms dart around Spock’s shoulders and scramble at his shoulder blades, holding him down and trying to keep him in, but Spock keeps going, in, out, in, out, _more._ Jim’s groaning, begging for it, ass trying to lift up to take it—the stretch burns, but it’s delicious, the feeling of being filled something he’s gone without too long. He wants all of Spock inside him, wants it now. The blowjob left him so hard that he doesn’t know how long he’ll last anyway, and Spock’s length is nothing to scoff at—it’ll find his prostate in no time. Then, just like that, like flicking a switch, Spock’s buried to the hilt and jammed against that one spot—Jim nearly chokes in his effort to contain his scream. He doesn’t know how soundproof these walls are. Spock’s all the way inside him and it’s fucking _amazing_. Spock bites at his neck and his jaw and kisses him hard, then starts on the real fucking. 

For someone with little to no experience, Spock’s _good_ , too good. He slides half out and all the way in, not pounding into Jim but grinding, so deep. He rocks into Jim hard, but slow, hips rolling into a steady motion that Jim rides in delight. Even going slow, going relatively gentle, the depth and the strength of Spock’s dick leaves him dizzy, the stretch and the heat and the feeling of _Spock_ pulsing inside him enough to drive him wild. He kisses Spock and kisses him again; this is _making love._

Fluid and full, Spock’s hips never stop as his hands migrate. One finds Jim’s cock between their bodies, wrapping around it and stroking it slowly in time with the movement. The other brushes Jim’s cheek, holds onto Jim while they kiss, and Jim moves one hand up to do the same. He cradles the back of Spock’s head and makes love to Spock’s mouth with his tongue. He pours every emotion he has for this man into it, and he gets it all back. If he could, he’d stop time right here and trap them like this forever.

But he can’t. The red sheen of Vulcan’s surface looms out the window as Jim nears the edge, trying to warn Spock between kisses but somehow only managing, “Love you, love you so much...”

Spock doesn’t need to return it; his body’s saying it. He’s getting close too, Jim thinks, can see it on Spock’s flushed, dilated face, feel it in Spock’s burning skin and the way Spock shudders and shifts against him. The pace doesn’t quicken, doesn’t race; it goes, sweet and steady, until Jim just can’t take it anymore. 

He spills against Spock’s stomach with a long, shuddering moan and a hazy breath of Spock’s name, too far gone from the pinnacle of ecstasy to know what’s going on. He sees white and pours out pure pleasure, clinging to Spock desperately until he pulls Spock over the edge with him. 

Spock tumbles down a moment later, bursting inside him—Jim gasps with the sensation. He can feel Spock filling him up, and he clenches, squeezes—Spock moans and gasps, “Jim...” He keeps rocking, but slower and slower, until he’s collapsing on top of Jim, still buried deep and panting hard. 

He’s sweaty, sticky, heavy and hot. Jim feels like he might catch a fever from this but couldn’t care less. He doesn’t want to move, and when Spock tries, he won’t let it happen. Spock has to push at him and murmur, “Jim,” and awkwardly pull out. It leaves Jim feeling empty and groaning, but Spock falls right down beside him, half draped over him and more beautiful than ever in his post-orgasm haze. 

Just in case, Jim somehow manages to pull the blanket up around them. It makes it even more unbearably hot, but it covers their mess. He mumbles inelegantly, “You’re amazing.”

Spock presses a kiss to his cheek that Jim’s pretty sure is agreement. 

For a long time, the two of them just lie there. They slowly come down, touch a bit, talk once or twice, mumble useless things, and nuzzle and don’t want to be apart so aren’t. Spock doesn’t directly smile when he doesn’t have to, when he’s not overwhelmed—a Vulcan thing, no doubt—but with Vulcan on the horizon, Jim thinks he’s noticeably happier. When they’re on the planet, Jim thinks he might glow. And that makes Jim happy even just to think about—he wonders what Spock’s house looks like, and how much room they’ll have in his old bed. 

Eventually, Stonn returns, politely or stoically ignoring their lazy, still post-coital bliss. He lies on his back on his own bunk and closes his eyes as though he’s meditating, and Jim sighs, “We should probably go.” 

Spock says, “Yes.” There’s only one bathroom on the little ship, so the showers are very short and not a place to fool around. They should probably use it now, but instead they wipe themselves off under the blankets and change, hoping no one else will notice with how musky and dirty everyone is—it’s been a rough trip, though after the woods, it’s felt easy. 

Dressed in spare robes from the Vulcans—something that Spock helps fix up on Jim and still feels strange—they head for the ‘bridge,’ which is little more than a cockpit. T’Pern and Suval sit at the helm, while Sarek and Amanda stand behind them, discussing landing arrangements. They cut off abruptly when Jim and Spock come in, and whatever Jim was going to say dies off in his throat—Vulcan looms in a great arch across the stretching windows. 

It takes him a few minutes to regain himself, during which the others are quiet, calm, and Jim wanders closer, leaning over the long console to get an eyeful. Amanda asks softly, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jim just nods, unable to do any better. 

A few minutes later, he mumbles, stepping back, “I hope they don’t mind taking a human down.” Sarek sends a knowing look at Amanda, and she smiles. 

“Given the great debt we owe you,” Sarek tells him, “there should be no apprehension from you. As well...” And here he pauses, glancing at Spock before adding, “my son’s mate is always welcome.” Jim has to bite the inside of his lip to contain his grin; he feels small and foolish. 

He steps back towards Spock, turning and slipping one hand into his.

Together, they watch their new world grow.


End file.
